


Within Shadows

by Frostburn



Series: Shadows and Moonlight [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Faeries - Freeform, M/M, Post-Axis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 63,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4151613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostburn/pseuds/Frostburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers are guests of Arden Ciarr, King of the Shadowfey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some smut. Some revelation. Someone dropped a bomb on Clint and Victor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the teaser!  
> Comments, kudos are welcome.

Victor moaned as he slowly woke up from his sleep. The wet suction of Arden’s mouth on his cock was too much for him. He can’t be bother to keep quiet. He fisted the sheets, bucking his hips slightly. There was a slight give to Arden’s dark head between his thighs as the fey drew back with an impish glance, somehow able to smirk around Victor’s engorged member. He growled at the smirk, but his expression was affectionate. The affection turned to delirium when Arden hollowed out his cheeks, slowly going under as he retook more of Victor … until he could feel the glans hit the back of Arden’s throat.

It’s amazing what having no gag reflex could do.

Arden didn’t mind when he was occasionally rough during their couplings. It had been five days since they had arrived in Shadivari, and the nights during their journey to reach the Argent Palace were spent in fervent and passionate fucking.

_There was a slight hesitancy on Victor’s side on the first night when he raised the question of the others hearing them. He actually couldn’t care less if the others heard—but he did not relish the prospect of meeting the eyes of the angelic Jorinda, or even staid, dependable Steve the next several mornings._

_Arden’s solution had been to conjure a field of absolute silence around them. “Make as much noise as you want,” he had gasped when Victor had rammed himself inside him. The fey’s choked cry of pleasure as Victor cut loose just set him more and more on his path to chase his sweet release inside his lover’s body._

_The second night found him on all fours, Arden’s tongue lapping at the tight pucker of his entrance. The fey’s clever tongue teased grunts and moans out of him, while his hands mapped out the muscular delineations of Victor’s legs, buttocks and back. Arden’s entry was gentle, almost reverent as he sank his length in Victor. Arden’s cock had a slight curve towards the top, the glans skating across the pleasure nub inside him as his lover slowly but inexorably increased the speed of his thrusts. Victor shouted his release, ropes of pearly ribbons streaking across the grass. On his chest. Even on his face. And he hadn’t even touched himself._

Now, in Arden’s bedchamber—the bed alone was large enough to fit four men of Victor’s size!—Victor luxuriated in the cresting waves of his orgasm. He came deep inside Arden’s mouth, the fey enthusiastically swallowing. The glottal muscles teased out spurts after another until Victor trembled, his hips twitching as his softening cock slipped from Arden’s lips.

“Good morning,” Arden smiled, kissing him on the mouth.

Victor tasted himself on the fey’s tongue when it snaked inside his mouth. He drew back and glanced at the windows. The silver light of the moon that shined down on this magical realm remained unchanged.

“Are you sure it’s morning?” he asked the fey teasingly.

Shadivari had been named the Land of Eternal Moonlight. In the five days he had been here, he could see that it was appropriately named. The realm does not experience true daylight in the classic sense of the word—just the constant presence of the moon. Only the warming of the temperature signals the difference between ‘day’ and ‘night,’ with night being much cooler.

_On the third day—or night, as it were—after a pleasurable session of Arden riding his cock, when they were lazing around bathed in the afterglow of their coupling Victor pointed out the difference of temperatures._

_“Come,” Arden said, standing up. Streaks of Victor’s seed trickled between the lean lines of his inner thighs, but he was unconcerned. He held out his hand to Victor who was still lying in the grass._

_Victor grasped his hand, and felt himself dissipating … and reforming again at the top of a high cliff. From his vantage point, he could make out the light of their campfire. He was slightly unnerved at how close the spot Arden had picked for their tryst was to the campfire. Thank God for spells of silence._

_“Look,” Arden had said, pointing to a lone mountain peak to their right. “That mountain is called the Shadowspire. The Argent Palace sits right at the top.”_

_"That’s where we’re headed, right?” he asked._

_Arden nodded with a smile. He motioned to the mountain. “Watch,” he said._

_The mountain remained shrouded by the shadows until slowly—almost imperceptible in its incremental change that one could miss it if it was not observed—there was a faint glimmer at the top peak of the mountain. It gently increased in brightness, until he could see the source of the glimmer was actually a large building. While he couldn’t say for certain, he guessed that that is the Argent Palace. The glimmer became a steady glow of gentle light, the nimbus slowly stretching from the top of the mountain peak to the land beyond. The area covered by the light seemed to be bathed in the soft light of an overcast sky. He could now see the difference of the overcast sky and the dark blue of the night._

_“The realm circles the Shadowspire,” Arden explained. “The Palace reflects the light back onto the realm as it circles the mountain.”_

_"_ _The warmth,” Victor guessed._

_Arden’s answering ruffle of his hair was affectionate. “Back when I was younger, I sometimes come here to see the land being slowly bathed by the light,” Arden said with a wistful smile. “I was trying to escape my tutors, you see.”_

_“Not exactly a diligent student, huh?” Victor asked, wrapping his arms around Arden._

_“No. I’m not the most biddable of students, I’m afraid,” Arden admitted ruefully with a small sigh. “My tutors despaired of ever making me even a passable student.”_

_“What changed?”_

_“Life.”_

_Victor pressed his naked torso against his lover’s back. “Thanks for sharing this with me,” he said, nuzzling Arden’s neck. “Do you think we can get back to our clothes?”_

_“Chilly?”_

_“A bit, yes,” Victor said with a small smile. “And you need help cleaning up,” he added, running his tongue along Arden’s neck._

Back in the present, Arden let out a small sigh and rose slowly from the bed. Wisps of shadowy tendrils snaked across his skin as he cleaned himself. Victor watched. He was transfixed by the play of liquid blackness running over Arden’s olive-complexioned form—an inventive use of his teleport abilities. He folded his hands behind his head, watching as the fey caused his outfit to snake across his body like water—it was like watching Venom’s symbiote as the dark grey linen shirt slowly covered him in swirls of forming fabric.

Fully dressed now in the dark grey linen shirt, black breeches and ankle boots, Arden stalked over to the bed to place a kiss on Victor’s brow.

“A king’s work is never done,” he murmured as he straightened back. “I’ll see you for lunch?”

“You can have me for lunch,” Victor said with a smirk.

He grinned wickedly at the heated look Arden gave him before the fey slipped out of the room.

He spent approximately close to a half hour lolling on the bed before deciding he felt like breakfast. He reached out and pulled the cord that would summon one of the servants. A young shadowfey in his late teens answered the summons. He nodded respectfully at Victor, listened to his request for breakfast and left with another nod. A few minutes later, three other shadowfey servants came with a selection of clothes, and a trolley of food—enough to feed even Steve, Victor noted.

After his breakfast of sausages, rolls and poached eggs, Victor availed himself to the bathroom adjoining the bedchamber. He was surprised when he first discovered that the palace had indoor plumbing. He knew that Natasha and Cargill would never admit it out loud but he was certain the two women had been relieved to learn that fact.

He was in his towel, drying his hair when the gentle knock came on the door.

“Come in,” he said.

The same shadowfey who had taken his order for breakfast entered. “Mister Barton to see you, my lord,” he said, with no trace of self-consciousness whatsoever at addressing Victor as a noble.

“Show him in,” Victor nodded with a small smile. “Thank you.”

Clint walked in, whistling as he took in the large bedchamber. “I guess Royalty has its perks, huh?” he wondered aloud.

“It has its moments, I guess,” Victor agreed. “What brings you here?”

“Adam asked if you’d like to join us for a run, a spot of hunting, and then lunch,” Clint answered, “in that order.”

Clint had managed to strike up an easy friendship with Adam El Maliki, one of the other fey who had accompanied Jorinda and Christabel. Arden had mentioned in passing that Adam had been the one who taught him how to ride, hunt and fight. Victor fought off a small nagging sense of wrongness at the information, deciding it was neither here nor there.

“ _Us_ being who?” he asked.

“Just you, me and him,” Clint replied easily. “He said to dress light.”

“Got it,” Victor said, shrugging into a leather jerkin and breeches.

“Damn,” Clint swore. “Don’t leave much to the imagination, do they?” his tone was admiring.

Victor chuckled, enjoying the attention. “Come on,” he hurried the archer out of the room.

Adam was waiting for them near the stables. The muscular dark-haired fey was barely dressed—sporting only a leather body harness that criss-crossed over his shoulders and sides, and a pair of buckskin leggings cut at knee length. All on display, the werebeast was essentially Steve’s dark-haired duplicate.

“You’re not squeamish about hunting, are you?” Adam asked gruffly.

“Not at all,” Victor answered.

“Good,” Adam said with a quick jerk of his head. “Follow me.”

He handed them each a shortbow, a quiver of arrows and a backpack containing a small resin-crafted canteen, a loaf of bread and some dried fruit-and-nut mix.

“First, we are going for a run,” Adam announced as he took them to the exit behind the palace. The back portion of the palace abuts a long stretch of woodland and gullies. He gave them each a long look, resting finally on Victor. “Try to keep up,” he said with a wink.

And then he sped off. If he had not seen it, Victor would’ve said he had never seen anyone move as fast as the werebeast had been. The gauntlet had been thrown, Adam leaping and jumping across obstacles like a parkour artist on a mission. Victor allowed himself a smile. A glance at Clint showed the other man shared his sentiment.

“It is on,” Clint said as he sprinted for the trees. He did not bother with vaulting over obstacles—which Victor did with a relish—keeping low to the ground.

Victor’s lungs heaved, taking in gulps of the sweet cleansing air. He won’t deny that the clean air takes some getting used to here in the Feywilds, and that he was going to miss the taste of clear spring water. Throughout his run, he noted that most facets of the geography is similar to the geography of the material world—the Prime, as Arden had called it. He had mentioned that similarly, just as the geography is reminiscent, so too do its inhabitants and many creatures exist as fey "echoes" of the Prime creatures. Arden had also commented that arcane magic runs more freely and powerfully in the Feywild than it does in the Prime and it is for this reason that so many of its inhabitants are magically gifted. Bleeds of magical aether will seep into the prime, where those especially gifted can draw upon its powers and bend it to their will.

A snap of branches brought his attention to his left and he saw that Clint had managed to clear a deadfall by leapfrogging over it, the muscles of his thighs bunching with the effort. Victor started to combine both their approach, keeping low to the ground and doing leaps and vaults when the situation warrants it. Slowly, little by little, the two of them started gaining on Adam.

He saw Adam on top of a small knoll, its edge dropping off into a sheer drop. The werebeast just grinned at him as he neared, swan-diving into the drop. Victor gave a small cry, halting at the edge as he peered below—only to cartwheel back when the werebeast flew up on large golden wings sprouting from his back. Adam circled slowly, before coming down to land in front of him.

“You’re fast,” the werebeast complimented.

“Thanks,” Victor accepted the compliment with a smile.

The faint sound of brush parting heralded Clint’s arrival, close behind him. The archer’s face was red from his exertion, but he seemed pleased at the rush of physical activity.

“Clint,” Adam had directed his words to the archer. “Why don’t you see if you can scare us some game?”

“This is a test, isn’t it?” Clint asked shrewdly.

“You can say that,” Adam admitted. “You and Victor seemed quite taken with Arden, and he with you.”

“Does everyone knows this?” Victor griped.

“Just myself,” Adam shrugged. The motion made the large wings unfold slightly behind him. “Joining into the House Illirien, you need to make sure you can pull your weight.”

Victor bristled at the comment. The hard set of Clint’s jaws told him the archer did not find the statement agreeable either. “You make us sound like chattel,” Victor growled.

“Apologies,” Adam replied, a small frown on his face. “That was not my intention.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Clint hissed.

“We are creatures mired in tradition and forms,” Adam explained. “And being a creature of the elements, we are bound to our lands. The mantle of the king grants great power—along with the responsibility—and Arden is basically the embodiment of this realm. Its living, beating heart. As long as he lives, the realm will endure. His is the will, and the way.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Victor asked.

Adam shook his head. “I am probably handling this wrong …” he said, trailing off.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Clint grumbled.

Adam smiled wryly at the insult. “Let me try again,” he said with a small wrinkle to his nose. “The king is the head of the household—in a manner of speaking—and his consort his …”

“Assistant?” Victor ventured, supplying the term when he saw the werebeast struggling.

“Just so,” Adam nooded.

Victor and Clint traded glances. Clint started, “Are you saying that I am in the running of being heir apparent to a faerie kingdom?”

“Heir presumptive,” Adam corrected. He nodded at Victor. “ _He_ is the heir apparent.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A banquet. A gatecrasher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm letting Steve have his turn at the spotlight for a bit before I turn them back to Victor. And possibly Clint.
> 
> As always, comments/kudos are welcome.

Steve pulled at the collar of the linen tunic he wore. The cornflower blue tunic was overlaid with a doublet the colour of soft buttery yellow, chased with gold thread. He had been assured by Natasha that he looked good. Cargill’s eyes had nearly popped out when she first saw him, which was followed by a slow, wicked smile. He felt a bit uncomfortable at the receiving end of such naked appreciation, although a part of him was flattered. After the serum, he had been exposed to such frank displays of interests but after being in the company of people like Natasha—who disregarded things such as physical beauty, and being in the company of people like Thor—a prime example of physical prowess, if any is needed, he had kept his awareness with that regards at the back of his mind. Now, however, he found himself slightly nervous.

“Breathe, Rogers,” Natasha had commanded, a small amused smile on her lips. “She wouldn’t care if you’re wearing a sackcloth.”

“Who?” Steve asked, nonplussed.

Natasha just snickered, smoothing down the crimson sheath dress she wore. Though it was satin, the dress was plain. The only concession to adornment was the star ruby pendant that she wore—the jewellery had accompanied the dress.

“Oh, you’re just adorable!” Cargill exclaimed, with a mild mocking tone. She narrowed her eyes as she observed him before turning to direct her next words to Natasha. “He  _really_ is that clueless?”

Natasha shrugged. “It’s part of his charm,” she explained with a smile.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Cargill breathed out. “He makes Scott look like a randy satyr by comparison.”

“He  _is_ keeping company with Emma Frost,” Steve pointed out, finally cottoning on to Cargill’s oblique topic.

“ _Touché,_ ” Cargill said, acknowledging the verbal riposte. “Miss Abdullah-Williams wouldn’t be able to resist you, Steve.”

Steve grinned sheepishly. He ran a hand nervously through his hair. “You think so?” he asked, unsure.

Cargill rolled her eyes with a small sigh. She stood up to her full height. The off-shoulder evening gown she wore was a confection of soft lavender taffeta. The décolletage was daring, and the high slit showed off her long legs in flashes of creamy café au lait skin. She stepped towards Steve, clasping him in the shoulders. Her superhuman strength managed to keep his fidgeting at bay. “Look at me,” she said gently. “The woman commands magical powers that rival Stephen Strange’s. She’s spent time with McCoy with his towering intelligence and wit. She has endured Pietro’s fratboy shenanigans, she’s been around Sam and his guy-next-door easiness, she’s immune to Clint’s impressive arms and derring-do.”

“Is there a point to this?” Steve asked with a slight grimace.

“I’m getting to it,” Cargill ground out with another roll of her eyes. “I don’t think the witch is impressed by all of that.”

“That wasn’t very nice,” Steve chided her. That only earned him another eye-roll, and a slight shake of Cargill’s head.

“What Joanna was trying to say,” Natasha cut in, throwing Cargill a conciliatory look, “is that Jorinda seems attracted to certain attributes.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha answered. “Maybe it’s courage, and kindness.”

“When there is kindness, there is magic,” Cargill added.

Steve looked at her. He then looked at Natasha. And promptly burst into laughter. “Did you two just quote  _Cinderella_ at me?” he asked, wiping his eyes.

Natasha buried her face in her hands. “You missed the point,” she grumbled. “Again.”

“Oh, I didn’t,” Steve replied with a grin. “I was just enjoying the other parts much more.”

“Captain America has a wicked sense of humour,” Cargill murmured. “Whatever will the world think?”

“They’ll probably collapse in a collective faint,” Christabel’s voice came from the door. “Before breaking social media talking about it, that is.”

The blonde mentalist was attired in a full-length white gown. The high neckline was severe, though softened by the intricate lace that formed it. The ruched bodice were adorned with seed pearls before it gave way to a voluminous full skirt that gave the impression the statuesque blonde was walking on clouds. She had a small velvet square in her hands.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” the mentalist explained. “Perils of being a telepath,” she added with a small twist of her lips. “These are for you,” she motioned to Cargill with the velvet square in her hand.

Cargill almost skipped in her eagerness. She let out a small gasp when she saw the amethyst chandelier earrings and the bracelet that accompanied them. “They’re beautiful!” she exclaimed.

“Why, thank you,” Christabel said, pleased.

“Wait,  _you_ made these?” Cargill asked as she hooked on one of the earrings.

“A Prime has to master at least one of the arts or crafts,” Christabel explained with a slightly rueful smile. A wistful look came into her eyes. “I was hopeless at sewing, or any of other supposedly genteel arts but a … friend taught me gemcraft and jewellery making.”

Steve and Natasha exchanged glances at the small pause on the word  _friend_ . Natasha raised an eyebrow in question.

“Don’t worry,” Christabel smiled at them. “You’ll meet Harald later at the banquet.”

The banquet is held to welcome the return of the shadowfey’s king. Arden had spun it into a welcome banquet for them, as he termed it,  _the noble heroes who aided in our return_ .

_Steve had stood next to Natasha when they finally reached the Shadowspire. They had joined Arden and Victor on a promontory, as if claiming the lone mountain by sight alone cemented the fey’s return to his realm. The four days of travel had them slightly worse for wear, but at the same strangely invigorated._

_“The realm recognizes the return of her master,” Arden had explained. “It’s her way of saying_ thank you _.”_

_“This place is alive?” Natasha had asked._

_“In a manner of speaking,” had been Arden’s cryptic reply. At the confusion on the redhead’s and Steve’s face, he shook his head. “My apologies. I sometimes forget you’re not from here.”_

_Victor had stepped nearer to Arden, an arm snaking around the fey’s waist as he nuzzled Arden’s head affectionately. “Tell them,” the blonde mutant had murmured._

_“Of course,” Aden had acquiesced. He motioned around them. “Each of the faerie realm has a master, or masters,” he began._

_“The shadowfey are creatures of the elements. The mystical shadows and reflections of the material world—in our case, the basic fundamentals of our powers are two: sympathy and reflection. With sympathy, if a shadowfey controls a thing similar, or related to a subject then he controls the subject itself. When it comes to reflection, for every action, an equal and opposite reaction exists—sometimes not wholly visible even in other forms of magic. When Jory unleashes one of her lightning bolts she wouldn’t see the amount of energy that vanishes from the elemental planes. Our powers do not hide these effects, but uses them instead: creating substance from emptiness and dark from light._

_“This realm is bonded to me. I am her living heart. Within its boundaries, I am the will and the way. I grow, as the land grows. If I falter, so does she. Without me, she will remain in fugue while she waits for a new master to claim her.”_

_“So when you fled –”_

_“It was a moment of weakness,” Arden had confessed. “I was in despair. We had just ended yet another war. My husband was dead. Only my sister and I were left out of our clan …” he trailed off._

_“Can I ask a personal question?” Natasha had asked, her eyes shrewd._

_“You may,” Arden had allowed._

_“How old are you, really?” Natasha asked. “I asked because it’s been driving me nuts trying to figure out the discrepancies. You look like you’re in your early thirties, but you speak like you’re a lot older.”_

_“Older than Steve,” Victor had said with a small chuckle. “And no, I won’t accept that a steady diet of Brontë and Austen made you sound like Mr. Darcy.”_

_“Hey now,” Steve had protested mildly. “They do have a point, though,” he conceded. “Care to share?”_

_“It is hardly relevant, but if you insist,” Arden had grumbled. “As of 11 May, as you would term it, I am one thousand, seventy-three years old.”_

_“Oh.”_

_“Oh, it gets better,” Arden continued with a smirk. “Elementars—that’s the large sub-race we fall under—pass along genetic memories down to their progeny.”_

_“Like insects.”_

_“We are slightly eusocial that way,” Arden had agreed. “part of why we are creatures of form and traditions.”_

_“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Steve had commented._

_“Your histories would disagree with you there,” Arden had retorted, not unkindly. “Ask Natasha.”_

_“He’s got us there, Steve,” Natasha had nodded in agreement._

_“Hey guys,” Clint’s voice came as he hurried to their side. “I think there’s a welcoming party heading our way.”_

_“That must be our escort,” Christabel had said, joining them at the promontory. “I had sent a summons mentally two afternoons ago. The rooms have already been prepared for our guests, along with suitable attire. Let’s not scandalize the nobles!”_

_“Of course,” Arden had returned drily. “Stars forbid we do that!”_

_They climbed down the promontory, awaiting their escort. Arden had chafed slightly at the wait._

_“I could just teleport us to the palace, you do realize that,” he had pointed out._

_“You can do that,” Jorinda had replied. “But don’t you want your people to see you?”_

_“They know I’m alive,” Arden had sniped back. “The realm circles the Shadowspire still.”_

_“True,” Jorinda had returned. “Think of it as morale-building. The people still need the comfort of knowing the Lord of Storm and Shadows is still in command here.”_

_“I suppose you are right,” Arden had conceded. He turned to Christabel. “Lorien knew I was going to cross the barrier into the material plane,” he said to the mentalist._

_“You want me to find out if there is a spy.” the blonde had stated. “Do I have your permission to exert my abilities as the Mentalist Prime?”_

_“You have our permission to act as you see fit,” Arden had replied formally._

_Steve and Natasha had watched the exchange with some interest. Natasha, Steve suspected is always on the lookout for any intrigue. On his part, Steve is only now realizing that this fey he had been travelling with is the ruler of a mystical realm. A very large realm, if he had been correct in his estimation when he was on the promontory._

_The ruler that had had them installed as personal guests in the royal wing of the Argent Palace._

Steve brought himself back to the here and now. Christabel was rattling out order briskly to Natasha.

“You will stay with me and Harald,” she said crisply. “I know he brought one of his nephews along, hence he shall be your escort.” Natasha had merely raised an eyebrow at her. “You’ll like him,” Christabel assured the redhead. “He’s a bit of a charming rogue, but a harmless one.”

Cargill snorted. “Does that mean I get an escort as well?” she asked playfully. “I’m all dressed and no one to take me out.”

“Of course you do,” the mentalist had replied. “Try not to stare at Leif too much, though. Trolls are awfully shy around other people.”

“A troll?” Cargill had shrieked.

“Not the way you imagined him!” Christabel hissed, annoyed at her reaction—especially after having caught a mental glimpse of the hook-nosed, corpulent, wart-skinned monstrosity in Cargill’s mind. “Leif is perfectly presentable. Blue skin, white blond hair, piercing grey eyes and he’s seven feet, six inches in height.”

“Seven-six?” Cargill asked, curious in spite of herself.

“Joanna,” Christabel had replied testily. “You are six-eleven in height. That somehow limits the pool of available escorts. Unless you prefer an orc? And yes, they  _do_ look like Azog.”

Cargill had blinked, then said, “Well, I think Azog was kinda hot.”

Christabel just stared at her, before a slow wide smile graced her lips. “Interesting,” was her only reply. She then shook her head, before turning to Natasha and Steve. “I’ll be in touch mentally, just to fill in the gaps should you need help.”

“That would be useful,” Natasha had conceded. Steve and Cargill nodded their assent.

“Shall we?” Christabel asked. “We shouldn’t keep the king waiting.”

Christabel ushered them out of the room, down the corridor then to another chamber where a cluster of seats were.

“Wait here,” the blonde commanded, and then hurried off.

There was a knock on the door several minutes later, followed by a deep baritone asking if “Miss Romanov is ready to be escorted to the banquet hall?”

Natasha had raised an eyebrow at the baritone and raised to her feet, walking languidly towards the door and opening it. A male fey stood at the door, standing at five foot four, but what he lacked in height he made up in the breadth of his shoulders and deep chest. A dwarrow, Steve realized, remembering several of them from his tour of the palace a few days ago. The dwarrow’s long dark brown hair had been combed back and tied to fall in intricate braids down his broad back. His beard had been trimmed and oiled and he was dressed in a russet-coloured doublet with green accents highlighting his playful green eyes.

He bowed deeply to Natasha. “Gared of Ravensfort, at your service,” he introduced himself.

“Natasha Romanov,” the redhead had replied with a small curtsy. “Pleased to meet you, good sir.”

The dwarrow beamed at her. “The pleasure is all mine, dear lady,” he returned. He held out his hand to her. “Shall we? I think there’s a roast peasant with both our names on it.”

Natasha let out a small laugh. “We wouldn’t want it to get away, do we?” she said as she allowed her escort to guide her away.

Steve let out a small laugh as he exchanged a look of amusement with Cargill.

There was another knock on the ajar door, and without waiting for permission to be admitted a troll stepped into a room. Steve managed to school features to nod an amiable greeting, although inside he was astounded.

The troll stood at seven feet and a half, his muscular frame hinted at an active life spent out of doors but his mannerisms were almost regal as he bowed to Cargill.

“Lady Joanna Cargill, I presume?” he asked, his bass tone practically reverberating in the small antechamber.

Cargill seemed speechless for a moment. The woman then managed to pull herself together and nodded at the troll. “I take it you’re Leif?” she asked, holding out her right hand. Christabel had drilled modes of forms and etiquette the past few days.

“Leif Ivarsson, at your service,” the troll introduced himself. He reached out to Cargill’s offered hand and laid a kiss on her palm.

Despite her café au lait skin, Steve could detect the faint becoming blush on her cheeks. He hid his smile. The troll granted him a nod and escorted her out to the banquet hall. Steve leaned back in his chair, waiting for his escort. He did not have to wait long.

The door opened to let in Jory. The witch was a vision in a gown of deep emerald green satin with an empire waistline hinting with its drape at her curves. Steve felt his mouth dry as he took in the sight.

“You’re staring, captain,” she said demurely, a small smile on her face.

Steve stood quickly, and stepped towards her. “It’s not my intention,” he hastened to assure her. “You look … amazing.”

“You’re not too shabby yourself,” she returned. She took a place on his left and appropriated his arm. “Shall we?”

Jory murmured various tales of the palace as they walked towards the banquet hall. The Illirien clan had been in rule since before the Forbiddance—the magical act that had transported the fey to this mirror world. The palace had been an exact replica of the one that was the seat of the sadowfey back in the material plane. According to Jory, in today’s geography the location would have been somewhere deep in the Carpathian Mountains. Along the way to the banquet hall, they passed a gallery where the marble busts of the long line of rulers and their consorts lined the walls. At the end of the gallery, one sculpture caught his attention. He paused to look at it.

It was a male fey, but he couldn’t place the species from the little descriptions he had gleaned from his previous conversations with Arden, Christabel or Jory. He took in the bald head, the heavy brow and the deep set—surprisingly—gentle eyes. The sculptor managed to capture the small smile on his lips. Aesthetically speaking, the fey wasn’t what one would call handsome but the way the sculptor had managed to capture the smile and the gentleness evoked in the fey’s eyes tugged at him. He turned to Jory.

“Who is he?” he asked the witch, noting the sad wistful look on her face.

“Khaymin Longstrider,” she answered softly. “Arden’s husband.”

“What kind of fey is he? I don’t recognize him from any of the descriptions.”

“An orc,” Jory answered with a small smile, gently tugging him away from the bust. “Are you surprised?”

Steve smiled ruefully. “A bit,” he admitted. “But knowing Arden better now, I’m not surprised.”

“The outer shell has never been of much importance to Arden,” Jory agreed. “Not surprising, considering shadowfey are actually incorporeal in their natural form. They only form a corporeal body to interact with others.”

“Ah,” was Steve’s only reply.

“You would’ve loved Khaymin,” Jory said. “He’s like an earthier version of Hank.”

“A gentle giant,” Steve murmured. Jory hummed her agreement.

They arrived at last at the banquet hall. The dimensions of the hall was staggering. From where Steve stood, it could easily take up the same space as half of the mansion. A large dais dominated the back of the hall, where a long table sat overlooking the hall. A small gallery at the far corner was occupied by a quartet of lutenist playing a merry tune. The cheerful notes of the song spilled down to the hall, where the various fey notables, and their guests were seated. Steve saw Arden seated in the centre of the long table on the dais, with Victor and Clint on his right. Natasha and Cargill were nest to Clint, with their respective escorts. Christabel was seated to Arden’s left, with her dwarrow escort—the oft-mentioned Harald, Steve would guess. There were two empty seats next to the dwarrow, between him and the darkly sensual Adria who is accompanied by a golden-haired man. Jory guided him towards the dais. Steve could feel the eyes of the multitudes of fey on him as he walked past. He glanced but couldn’t tell if they were unfriendly. He could only detect mild curiosity from the looks thrown his way.

“Am I just imagining things or are they all staring at us?” he murmured.

“You’re not,” Jory said softly with a small weary laugh. “The Wytchdottir is a public figure, after all. We spellweavers don’t have an actual realm of our own being so widespread across this world but the bearers of the titles Maiden, Mother and Crone are of public interest.”

Steve did not miss the slight tightening of her eyes as she finished her explanation. Whatever it was that the fey populace was interested in it was not something the witch was happy about. He was about to ask another question when he felt the tingle.

It started as a slow tingle at the soles of his feet. It steadily grew stronger, making his skin crawl with the sensation as it slowly builds in strength. A hiss from Jory drew his attention.

“Magic!” she gasped. She turned to the dais to issue a small cry, at the same time the walls exploded in a shower of mortar and rubble as something careened through.

Steve did not think, he quickly drew the witch in his arms and shielded her with his body from the shower of the imploding rubble. He braced himself for the impact but felt none. He threw a quick look and saw that Adria had effected a telekinetic wall to brace the collapsing wall. He managed to catch a few glimpses of falling mortar and rubble that quickly dissipated into nothingness—Arden must have translocated them away before they could fall and injure the guests. The guests themselves had been quickly and methodically shuffled away to safety by the guards, leaving the hall to Arden, the Avengers and their escorts.

Steve stalked towards the source of the damage, a figure in forest green and gold leathers. “Oh no,” he sighed out loud.

Loki raised his bloodied face to his, his cracked lips forming words amidst gasps of pain.  “Help me,” he said.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki gets witch-slapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos are welcome.

The cut on his head running from the temple to the back was shallow but it was bleeding profusely, covering the left side of his head in sheet of crimson. The pain was a dull throb, niggling away at his consciousness that was currently splintered by his rage. Somebody will pay dearly for the indignity of being thrown into a wall to crumple onto the floor like some miscreant receiving chastisement.

He fixed his attention on the people around him. His mage-sense sense an abundance of magic, thick and rich. The sorcerer in him roused at the glimmering aura he could just see at the far edge of his vision. He knew if his mage-sight was activated the richness of the magical aura could disorient him; he had never seen its like before throughout his travels. Instinctively he knew that the magical aura dwarfed even those in magically verdant Vanaheim.

He teased out a small touch of his mage-sight gauging the ones surrounding him for their magical strength. The rangy olive-skinned man standing at the centre of the dais practically roiled with power, his being cloaked in tendrils of coal-coloured mist that seeped out from his skin to evanesce in the air. On the far right, an ice-blonde woman, a sultry raven-haired woman and her golden companion were all glowing with the slight pinkish aura of that marked them as psychics. The giant with the blue skin, and the two short, stocky men with braided hair he dismissed when he read their aura. The blue-skinned giant had some traces of magic but it was paltry compared to the olive-skinned man on the dais.

He was not surprised when he saw the familiar faces of Captain America, the Black Widow and Hawkeye. He was doomed to be dogged by the Avengers it seems. He did not recognize the black woman or the other blonde giant—a rougher, feral-looking copy of Thor. Perhaps new recruits.

Loki straightened, flexing his fingers as he brought to the fore in his mind the more formidable of his battle spells.

“What are you doing here, Loki?” Captain America asked, his voice stern. He was standing in front of a woman with skin like new milk and curves that would send Freya into a jealous snit. Oh, he would enjoy hurting her just to get at the Captain.

Loki did not answer, he just flicked his fingers at the two of them and unleashed a long gout of scarlet flame. He hissed in annoyance when the gout never reached the Captain, dissipating into wisps of grey mist.

“I would not do that again, if I were you,” said the olive-skinned man, walking down the steps.

Loki spat out a power word, greenish streaks of evil-looking eldritch energy pulsed out from his fingers to strike at the man. It dissipated again in wisps of grey mist, and appeared from his left to hammer into him. Loki screamed in fury and pain as he staggered from the hits. The man had teleported his eldritch blast and redirected it to him! His inner sorcerer nodded in approval at the man’s inventive manoeuvre. He might be a worthy adversary, after all.

“Would you like to try again?” the man had said, the dark irises of his eyes expanded to colour the entirety of his eyes. His skin turned pale, the healthy olive tinge fading into wisps of black smoke that faded in mid-air. The great hall they were in darkened, the lights dimmed. The walls seemed to have disappeared in the sudden gloom.

Loki unleashed another volley of eldritch bolts, this time targeting several different people. The blue-skinned giant fell as one of the bolts caught him. The sultry raven-haired woman and her golden escort had erected a translucent milky shield that deflected the two bolts sent in their direction. One other bolt hit Rogers, throwing him several feet behind, but it fizzled into nothingness when it reached the angelic beauty the Captain had been so protective of.

“Interesting,” he said, stalking towards her.

“You will not touch her!” the raven-haired woman shouted, hammering at him with several telekinetic spikes.

He conjured a shield, letting the spikes rattle against their surface but not stopping his advance.

“It’s alright, Adria,” the angel said, her voice calm. “I’ll be fine.”

Loki almost laughed aloud at her foolish confidence. A small part of him was intrigued at the fact that the others had given them a wide berth. Well, he would make sure they regret their inaction. He circled her as he neared, taking in her scent of lily-of-the-valley and the deep emerald shade of her gown that complemented her brown curls and creamy skin. He was surprised to find that despite his murderous intent, he found himself attracted to her.

He brought up his right hand, gripped her shoulder and gasped at the pulsating energy that wracked him to his knees. His right hand felt as if he had reached into the elemental plane of fire unprotected. Tears of pain streamed from his eyes.

Arden looked on at the tableau. At Jory’s nod, he gestured and drew the rest of them out from the pocket dimension he had seamlessly threaded them in earlier. To the onlookers, it is as if the witch and Loki had disappeared in wisps of smoke but in reality it was them that had exited the separate dimension.

As the rest faded out from the pocket dimension, Jorinda stepped back from Loki. The god staggered to his feet, hissing in pain at the movements.

“What did you do?” he hissed out.

 “You have never faced an Ilmari before, have you?” Jorinda asked, an eyebrow arched in amusement. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. We tend to keep to ourselves, what with internecine conflicts taking up much of our time.” She smiled. “To answer your question in full, I am a spellweaver. A breed of Ilmari more commonly known as witches, hags, or what have you according to common human folklore.”

She circled Loki, flicking a finger to brighten the space slightly. The gloom lifted, the walls seemingly giving out illumination in response to her command. “Your bolts fizzled due to spell resistance. It’s a common trait among spellweavers. Uncommonly high, in my case. The pain that wracked you earlier was a spell that turns any ill intention back to its owner.”

“Intriguing little thing, aren’t you?” Loki commented.

“So I have been told,” Jorinda shrugged prettily. “I am assuming you arrived here by accident—”

“Are you sure?” Loki asked toyingly.

“You wouldn’t have asked for help otherwise,” Jorinda returned. “And no one can enter Shadivari intentionally unless invited by its ruler.”

“Perhaps I am mightier than its ruler.”

“Perhaps not,” Jorinda returned flatly. “Shall we dispense with this foolishness and you tell us what brought you here, or shall we trade a few more spells before I humiliate you?”

“Bitch,” Loki growled as he flicked a finger at her direction.

Spikes of ice fifteen feet tall and three feet wide shot up from the floor, spreading over fifty feet around. The witch was hemmed on all sides, her only avenue out would be to climb up and out.

“Quite clever,” the witch’s voice came out from behind the walls of jagged ice. “You managed to figure out a way around the spell resistance.”

Loki gave her a mocking bow. She shouldn’t have been so free with the information, the hebetudinous chit. While a direct spell effect obviously will not work on her, a resulting conjuration on the other hand…. He turned away from her, studying the room—for lack of a better word—he is in. It’ll take her a while to get out of the icy pen.

He was several minutes into the study of the pocket dimension—as he now realised, and appreciated the fact that these Ilmari are creatures of immense power—when the sizzling sound of water meeting flames caught his attention. He turned around, his fingers twisting in the patterns of a spell.

The wall of icy spikes that had hemmed the witch had melted, with her form wreathed in incandescent light that hurts his eyes to look at. The heat that emanated from her glowing form rose slowly and surely, turning the icy conjurations into melting pools that then turned to vapour. The air turned dry, and it steadily became difficult to breathe.

“The spell is called  _body of the sun_ . It wreathes the recipient with the heat of a white star,” the witch explained. “You can guess what it will do to you.”

“Is that supposed to terrify me?” he asked with a slight cough. The dry air had turned scratchy, irritating his lungs.

She ignored his question. “I heard that you share similar durability with your brother Thor,” said, meeting his eyes. “But my observation is that in the heart of a sun, there are limits to  _everything_ .”

“He is  _not_ my brother!” Loki croaked out. The air felt like it was burning his lungs as he gasped out his breath.

She gave him a pitying smile. “You were raised as such, but that is beside the point,” she replied.  “The point is will you squander your life away to die ignobly by a witch’s hand, or will you yield?”

He held up one of his arms in a supplicating gesture. His tongue had grown thick and swollen, the moisture baked away by the steadily rising heat. His skin had started to redden and blister.

“I yield,” he gasped out.

* * *

They had kept him in the only room occupying the top of one of the towers. Besides him being under lock and key, there was little that showed it was an incarceration. Aside from the wards that kept the chill out, or the windows ensorcelled to allow air in but nothing out. Not that he could magicked himself out at any rate—the witch had placed a binding upon him that barred his access to his own powers. The room was comfortably furnished with a large bed, a small table with two chairs and a well-stocked bookshelf. He passed his time availing himself to the books he found in the library. Books of history. The history of the world, as recorded by these creatures, a race of beings that had never been identified by the Aesir. Who had even stayed hidden from Heimdall’s all-seeing eyes. He quelled the disturbing thought that these creatures hold power that could rival the might of Asgard. Instead, he thought of how these beings could be exploited to his advantage.

In the past two days his meals had arrived like clockwork, brought by the golden-haired man from the banquet hall. He was accompanied by two maids who went around emptying the chamberpot and straightening up the room. The meals were simple but delicious. Breakfast was poached eggs accompanied by a sweet pastry folded over with raspberry preserves. Lunch was grilled whitefish served with bitter greens and jellied consommé made from beef. Dinner was wild rice with peas and diced carrots served with a thick stew swimming with scallops and mussels.

He had commented on the meal when breakfast was brought on the third day. His golden-haired warden just glanced at him, his look assessing.

“It’s hardly an incarceration,” he answered crisply, his tone neutral. “You are placed here to regain your strength before granted audience with the king.”

“I’m sure that’s what you tell them all,” Loki drawled.

“If it is torture you crave, I am certain we could have one arranged,” the other man replied, a small smile on his lips. “Which would it be, branding or the rack?”

Loki let out a small chuckle. “Surprise me,” he murmured with a slow smile.

He was surprised when his lunch was brought by the angelic-looking witch.

“This is a surprise,” he commented, shutting the book of Shadivari’s geography and putting it aside. He rose to his feet and nodded at her.

She merely raised an eyebrow. “Reuben is unavailable today,” she explained. “Besides, I thought we might want to have a chat, you and I.”

He bowed mockingly. “Please, dear lady,” he said, his tone mockingly servile. “I am at your immediate disposal.”

She motioned with her head towards the small nook that held the small table and its two chairs. “We’ll eat first,” she returned.

He saw that the meal had been prepared for two. Their meal passed quietly. After their repast had been completed, the witch put their dishes away on the tray they had arrived and leaned back in her chair.

“The last Asgardian that visited the Feywilds was your adoptive grandfather Bor,” she said, looking at him.

“Is it?” he commented, managing to still his features to not betray his surprise. “I have never heard, or read, anything about that visit.”

“He was probably encouraged to forget,” the witch returned, with a small shrug.

This time forgot to reign in his surprise.  _Just how powerful are they?_ he wondered to himself.

“That must have been quite a while ago,” Loki murmured, once he got over his surprise.

The witch hummed non-commitantly. “It doesn’t answer how you ended up here,” she replied.

Loki looked away. He did not feel comfortable talking to this incongruous creature with her angelic face but holding power that dwarfed his. It was a singularly humbling experience, especially when he suspected that she had not even taxed the more powerful of her magics during their altercation earlier.

“It was not my intention, I assure you,” he admitted grudgingly. “I was summoned against my will.”

“A  _calling_ ,” the witch hazarded. “I think I know who it was.”

“Don’t you know what he wants?” Loki said, smiling gleefully at the witch.

“Stay your tongue, snake,” she said, her voice calm despite the rising turmoil he could see in her eyes. “Lest I split it into strips and have them braided.”

“Ah, threats,” Loki sniffed disdainfully. “Do your worst, Wytchdottir.”

“Be careful what you ask for,” the witch replied, her voice like silk around steel. “I am not here to entertain puny godlings with delusions of grandeur.”

Loki glared at her. She held his stare, knowing that he could not break free of the bindings placed upon him.

“Very well,” Loki relented, none to graciously. “I suppose you have me at a disadvantage. I assure you that I will be on my best behaviour.”

“You realise that I am the least of your worries, should you step outside the line,” she warned him.

“If you are just an example of the kind of power I have to face should I break my promise then consider myself duly warned,” Loki replied. “I have enough enemies as it is.” 

“Good,” the witch said. “You are allowed to leave the room from now on.” Loki raised his eyebrow at her. “You may join me and Steve for dinner later.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier and the Witch. The Fey Lord, The Feral Hunter and The Archer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on something for Steve and Jory, a spin-off if you will. There will also be a separate story set in this universe coming soon.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are welcome.

Jory and Steve were enjoying a small picnic tea in a glade out on the palace grounds. It was a spot surrounded by rolling knolls and woodlands that opened into the moonlit-drenched area they are occupying now. After slightly more than a week in Shadivari, Steve found that the oddity of an entire kingdom spinning around the lone Shadowspire where they are slowly bathed in the silvery light of an ever-present moon disappearing slowly as he became acclimatized to the magical realm. 

The witch had informed him that Loki will be joining them for dinner.

“He is joining us for dinner?” Steve asked, aghast.

Jory smiled as she brushed her fingers along his arm. “He promised to be on his best behaviour.”

“This is Loki we are talking about,” Steve grunted.

“And this is the Feywilds, and we are in the Argent Palace,” Jory stated. “Trust me, breaking the sanctity of hospitality in here is inadvisable.” 

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They fell silent for a while, comfortable in enjoying each other’s presence. A gentle breeze brought forth the sweet smell of lavender from beyond the glade, mixing with the lily-of-the-valley scent that Steve had identified as uniquely Jory’s. He allowed a small ironic twist on his lips; a man from a different era to have met his potential soulmate in a witch from a magical realm. Then again, Wanda had married an android so he supposed stranger things have happened before.

“So,” he started, playing with a blade of grass in his hesitance to give voice to the question he had, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Are you asking if I have set my cap for someone?” the witch asked in return, her smile gentle.

“Yes,” he answered.

“No,” the witch said, an undertone of annoyance in her voice making Steve look up. A small frown marred her smooth brow. “There have been suitors, of course but none that I would consider as a husband.”

“Sounds like you’re quite in demand,” Steve said sardonically before he could stop himself.

Jory threw him a sharp glance, a small twist of dark amusement on her lips. “An alliance with the Maiden of the Witches is quite a coup for anyone. Ask Christabel and Arden.”

“What have they got to do with this?”

“Here in the Feywilds, most are of the mindset that power, land, riches and lineage are of paramount importance. The needs of the body can be accommodated. The needs of the heart are expendable.”

“That’s a cold way of looking at it.”

“And yet that is how it has always been,” the witch sighed. “I sometimes admire Arden and Christabel for breaking away from tradition.”

“I can understand Arden’s situation, being gay—” Jory’s small laugh stopped him in mid-sentence. “What?” he asked.

“Arden is an exception to gender norms and identities,” Jory explained once her giggles subsided. “Remember when I said a shadowfey is incorporeal?”

“Yeah. Wait … are you telling me Arden is actually female?” Steve’s pretty sure his eyes must have bugged out when he asked the question. At least, if the witch’s amusement was anything to go by.

“Shadowfey are neither male nor female. They just pick one they closely identified with. Some switch back and forth. Some become synoecious.”

Steve stayed silent for a while, puzzling it out in his mind. He decided it doesn’t really matter to him as long as Victor is fine with it. He gave a mental shrug and asked Jory to elaborate on her comment about Arden and Christabel.

“Arden is the ruler of the shadowfey, and master of Shadivari,” Jory pointed out. “Christabel is the Mentalist Prime, the equivalent of a queen regnant for mentalists and shares the realm of Elysium with the dwarrow and the sylvarren.”

“Dwarves and elves,” Steve murmured, recalling the crash course the witch and the blonde mentalist had grilled into them during their four-day trek to reach the Shadowspire when they first arrived.

Jory nodded. “Shadivari is one of the largest realms among the Light fey, and Elysium is rich in natural resources.”

“Land and riches, and marrying into the ruling family gets one power and lineage,” Steve said, understanding better the workings of fey society.

“You must remember that despite the beauty you might see this is a world brimming with battles and skirmishes between the Light and Dark fey,” the witch cautioned. She then smiled ruefully, continuing. “Don’t get me wrong, there have been love matches, and some of the unions although not based on love came to be rewarding in the end.”

 

“Of course,” Steve returned, understanding that there are times personal desires must be sacrificed for the greater good.

“You should have seen how Christabel told off her suitors,” Jory said with a small laugh. “She was quite the virago.”

“How did she ended up with Harald?”

“Harald grew up with her, and he was one of her bodyguards when she reached her majority, as part of his warrior apprenticeship. I suppose seeing her all grown up fanned the flames of passion.”

Steve’s look was sceptical. He would not deny that Christabel was beautiful, but it was not the kind of beauty that drove men into paroxysms of passion; her beauty was one of icy perfection to be admired from a distance lest the bite of her chill seeps into your bones.

“Trust me,” Jory said, seeing his look. “It’s one of those things that you had to have been there. Harald courted her by sending her these exquisite carvings of flowers and animals every week, each one accompanied by poetry or prose so heartbreakingly earnest you would not believe it came from a fey race so commonly thought as stoic and reserved.”

“How did he get through to her?” Steve asked, interested in the tale despite his earlier scepticism.

“He figured out that since flowers wouldn’t work, maybe something closer to her interest would,” Jory answered. “Chris is a fencer, so Harald made her a rapier. That got her attention. The rest is pretty much history, as one would say.”

“So the dwarf king and the mentalist queen ruling hand-in-hand in Elysium is the happily ever after,” Steve concluded. “What about your people, the spellweavers?” Steve asked. “Don’t you have a realm of your own?”

“We are more or less scattered across the Feywilds,” Jory smiled, “and we don’t have a centralised governing body, although two-fifths of our number do reside on the Arboreal Islands. I was born there.”

“Sounds like a nice place to live,” Steve said with a smile. “Evokes images of pastoral beauty.”

“It does, at that,” Jory smiled at him. “Perhaps we can go for a visit to my family once we’re done here.”

“Meeting the parents?”

Jory laughed, swatting his shoulder playfully. “My sister is quite the fan of your adventures. She is an adventuress of some note herself.” She paused, sobering up slightly. “You will probably want to meet my brother and his wife, though.”

Steve raised his eyebrows in response to her last statement. At the witch’s sombre eyes understanding dawned in him. He stood up and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Jory stayed silent, breathing in as she was enveloped in his arms. She took a deep breath, inhaling the clean spicy smell that was Steve and gently broke away from him to look at him. “What about you, Steve? Are you seeing anyone?”

He did not answer her straightaway. She was still cradled loosely in his arms, his hand at her waist and her back. Her large green eyes held his, in their depths there was imprisoned sunshine in a dark wood. Steve knew then he would willingly walk in those woods with her at his side to let the sun in. His left hand left her waist, straying to her face as he brushed his knuckles along her cheek. Their faces edged closer, pulled together by the undeniable wanting both can no longer ignore.

“You,” he whispered. “I see only you.”

Their lips met.

Steve could not be certain, but if one had asked him, he could have sworn the glade’s peaceful hush slowly turned into … alertness. It was as if every single nerve endings in his body had been tickled awake. He felt Jory’s lips against his. His arms wrapped around her. Her hands around his neck, fingers tangling themselves in his hair. The silvery light of the moon became warmer, as if they have their own personal sun warming the glade, waking them to this nascent emotion as beautiful as it was pure.

_Break the clouds apart, I’ll be your sun._

Images filtered through his mind. Hands holding each other. The world was on fire but they stood tall against the conflagration. Images of lives yet to be lived but there they were. Always together, under the sun.

* * *

 

The raven flitted through the open window, startling Cargill. Natasha just sipped patiently at her tea as the bird made its slow circle around the room before alighting on the stand behind Arden’s armchair. With the exception of Steve, Natasha and the rest of the Avengers were in the royal apartments having a sumptuous tea with Arden.

Natasha looked at Victor and Arden. The larger man looked at peace, his face gentle as he glanced at Arden who was paying attention to the raven. A glimmer of amusement sparked in his eyes, and intrigued Natasha. There is some amusement afoot and she is always up to participate.

“Something happening?” she asked casually. Her casual tone made Clint turn towards her. He had known her long enough to read her sufficiently well. When she is not hiding, that is.

“We’ll find out later,” Arden said cryptically.

“How much later?” Clint asked, popping in one of the blueberry scone in his mouth. “These are good, by the way.”

Arden nodded his acknowledgment at the compliment. “We may know at dinner, I suppose.”

“I think we can wait that long,” Cargill said as she crossed her long legs from the chaise lounge where she was ensconced. Her Amazon-like frame could not find a comfortable purchase on the chairs, and she was hesitant to take her tea reclining like a dissolute temptress but Arden had waved off her concerns.

“Indulge your inner Cleopatra,” he had said, asking for a small side table to be brought to her and piled with the delicacies from the trolleys brought in for their tea. It seems being guests of the king does have its perks after all.

“The wait is bearable though, though,” Cargill noted. “In the meantime while waiting for dinner, there is a good tea spread, scintillating conversation and pleasant company. It’s all so, I don’t know, civilised somehow.”

“That’s an interesting observation,” Natasha commented. “How so?”

“Well, there is no TV or radio. So a gathering like this would depend on the individuals’ conversational skills to make it a success. I think modern amenities spoiled us somehow.”

“I’ll have to agree with her,” Clint remarked.

“You would,” Natasha said with a smile. “You’re the one using a bow and arrows.”

“Archery, or rather a sharp eye is always a valuable skill,” Arden supplied. “Besides, don’t you use those selfsame skills in yournline of work?” he directed the question to Natasha.

“That was different.”

“In what way?” Arden quizzed.  “You pay attention to your surroundings, visual, verbal and physical queues to direct the flow of conversation to the desired outcome do you not?”

“He’s got a point there,” Victor agreed. Cargill nodded her assent.

“Thank you!” Clint crowed, throwing Natasha a smug look.

“You’re welcome,” Arden said, blowing him a kiss and laughing at his resulting blush.

“You’re an evil man,” Victor said with a small laugh.

“I am, aren’t I?” Arden agreed with aplomb. “Will you spank me?”

“Later,” Victor murmured.

“Oh, Jesus wept,” Cargill snickered. “Get a room!”

“They are in one now,” Natasha pointed out with a grin.

“Not helping,” Clint rebutted.

“Not to take anything away from the impending three-way,” Victor said—to guffaws of laughter from Natasha and Cargill, and a small squawk of protest from Clint—he turned to Arden.  “Does it have anything to do with Steve and a certain witch?”

“No harm in innocent speculation,” Natasha said as she grabbed a small triangle of sandwich.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Cargill agreed. “We can all see how ga-ga Cap is for her.”

“So are they enacting one of Nat’s bodice-ripper scenes?” Clint asked naughtily. Natasha almost choked on her sandwich.

“What!?” Cargill almost squealed in her surprise.

“There’s nothing wrong with reading historical romances,” Natasha retorted.

“Let me guess, Judith McNaught?” Cargill asked the redhead.

“Julia Quinn, actually,” Natasha answered with a slight blush.

“No way! I have her on my Kindle. I’ve just finished the Bridgerton series. My favourite is  _It’s in His Kiss._ ”

“You’ll probably like  _What Happens in London_ , then. There’s more of that ‘death by pigeons’ scene.”

The men looked on as the two women started gabbing away about deadly pigeons, cantankerous countesses and Russian princes.

Clint turned to Arden and Victor, quizzical. “What the fuck just happened?”

Arden smiled as he shrugged.

“Am I missing something? Death by pigeons?” Clint asked out loud.

Victor shrugged. “Sounds interesting, though,” he commented to Arden with a small laugh.

“And it segued away from Steve and Jory,” Arden murmured in his ear.

“Was that what that little bird told you?”

“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

“You tease.”

“Now now, Victor. You know that is one thing I never do,” Arden murmured darkly, licking a stripe up the side of his neck.

Victor gasped. It was echoed by Clint, who was looking at them from his seat. His left hand was clutching the armrest in a death grip. His right was on his lap, the palm pressed against the front of his trousers. Natasha and Cargill were nowhere to be seen. Victor noted that one of the trolleys bearing their tea was missing.

“Where did the two go?” Victor asked the blushing Clint.

Clint swallowed several times before answering them. “They took one of the trolleys and went off to Nat’s room.”

“That’s all the way down the hall,” Arden noted with an innocent air.

“Can you make sure we’re not disturbed?” Victor asked him, nibbling on Arden’s ear. His right hand was making quick work of the shirt and the buttons.

Having managed to work the shirt open, his hand snaked in to caress the fey’s chest. A thumb grazed against his nipple had Arden arching slightly in his seat. His gasp was swallowed by Victor’s kiss, the blonde’s mouth devouring the exhaled air as he fitted his lips around Arden’s. Tongues battled even as Arden mewled lustily into the kiss.

Throughout their exchange, Clint was staring at them. Desire and shyness warred in his eyes until Arden decided to take pity on him. He held out his left hand to the archer.

“Come here, Clint,” he said. 

The internal battle seemed to have tipped in ones side’s favour in Clint as he stood up. His stride was sure and confident, and there was a slight swagger as he came to stand in front of Arden. He grabbed Arden’s outstretched hand and pulled the fey to his feet to stand in front of him. Arden smiled inwardly. He likes this aspect of Clint, he decided. 

Arden’s mind blanked momentarily when Clint kissed him, all naked hunger and want. Victor’s hum of appreciation sounded behind him as the larger man took on the sight of his lover being in the consuming embrace of the other man. Clint kissed like the way he fights, with a playful abandon and reckless passion. He nipped at Arden’s jaw, playfully bite on Arden’s lips and the way his palms flattened themselves against Arden’s lean back—enveloping the leaner fey in his brawny arms. He drew back slightly, his hands palming Arden’s buttocks lazily as he grinned at the fey. 

“So, how was that?” he asked cheekily. 

“Stars above, Clint,” Arden breathed. “It’s like you’re making a meal out of me.” 

“Certainly looks like it,” Victor said huskily. He stood up, his larger frame towering over the archer and the fey as he put his arms around them. He nuzzled the side of Clint’s neck, while Arden melted against the archer’s chest. “Let’s take this to the bedroom.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint, Victor and Arden up in a tree ... you know the rest.
> 
> Short and smutty this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Smut Fairy hit me with her dildo wand and took over my body. This is the result.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are well, I would say welcome but considering the subject at hand ...

The walk to the bedroom was paused several times by kisses being exchanged among the three of them. Victor had been in the middle, alternating between Clint and Arden claiming their mouths with his. When he was kissing Arden, the archer was running his hand across the expanse of his back brazenly cupping Victor’s ass and kneading the round mounds of muscles displayed to their advantage by the tight breeches. When Victor turned to pay attention to Clint, the fey would assail his front, undoing the buttons of his shirt while he lipped at the side of Victor’s neck.

They somehow made it to the bed, Victor’s moans muffled by Clint’s mouth as the archer kissed him with a passion that surprised him. He knew that Clint is a passionate man but being on the receiving end still took him aback. His breeches were pushed down to his thigh, letting Arden feast on his engorged cock as the fey took him easily all the way in his mouth. His left hand was caressing Victor’s flanks and back while his right was slowly, sensually, stroking Clint’s hard cock.

The archer’s tunic was open, Victor’s hands thumbing his nipples and cupping his taut muscular ass. His trousers were pooled around his ankles, caught on his ankle boots.

Arden resurfaced from his enthusiastic fellating. “Let’s get rid of the clothes,” he said as his own tunic dissipated into wisps of charcoal-coloured mists.

Victor looked down to see that his breeches, tunic and boots had disappeared, as well as Clint’s own clothes.

“Much better,” he growled as he pulled Arden into a kiss.

“Yeah,” Clint murmured against Arden’s ear, lazily running his palm down Arden’s ass. “God, you feel incredible.” At Victor’s chuckle, he turned and fixed lust-filled eyes on the larger man. “And you’re fucking gorgeous,” he said appreciatively, running a palm through Victor’s hairy chest.

His hand carded their way down until it reached the nest of pubic curls to wrap his fingers around Victor’s heavy erection. He scooted lower on the large bed until his face is level with Victor’s groin. Now eye level with Victor’s cock Clint felt a slight trepidation at the thought of taking Victor inside his mouth. Victor must have sensed his unease because he cupped Clint’s chin to tilt him to meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to if you’re not sure—” his words disappeared in a gurgle and then a groan when Clint’s tongue licked a small stripe at the underside of his cock. “Fuck,” he whispered with a small laugh when he met Clint’s eyes. Eyes that didn’t leave Victor’s as he took his time placing open-mouthed kisses and licks along the length of his cock. Once he had hit a comfortable stride, he opened his mouth and took the head of Victor’s cock inside him. His tongue flattened itself on the underside of the shaft, allowing the leaking pre-cum to land themselves in his questing mouth.

Victor’s head dropped onto the pillow, lost in the sensation of the archer’s mouth on him. Arden caught him in a kiss, languid and sensual. The fey’s hand were running across his torso, occasionally carding down into Clint’s short blonde brush and grazing his knuckle against the archer’s cheek. Arden moaned into his mouth, almost hungrily and the loss of Clint’s mouth on him told Victor that the archer had switched to pleasuring the fey with his mouth. He looked down, and true enough Clint’s face was buried all the way down to Arden’s pubes, his eyes closed in bliss.

Clint released Arden’s cock with a small pop, a devilish smile on his face as he nuzzled and licked at the fey’s testicles. Arden’s grasp on his head and the widening spread of his legs told him wordlessly where to go. He was aware of Victor moving around above him and a mouth on his throbbing cock confirmed his suspicions—they are now in a daisy chain. He glanced up, seeing Victor bobbing up and down his cock, and Victor’s leaking cock and his spread legs. The sultry sounds of Arden feasting on Victor’s ass—rimming—made his cock throb in Victor’s mouth.

“Easy there, big guy. I won’t be able to hold it if you don’t stop.” 

Victor lifted his head from his pleasurable endeavour and smirked. “I want to taste you,” was all he said and promptly returned to the task at hand.

Clint moaned when he felt Victor’s palms on his ass, kneading the muscles appreciatively. Arden’s throbbing cock waved in front of him, momentarily forgotten in his exchange with Victor. Clint took the fey’s cock in his mouth, eliciting a groan from Arden. He smiled around the column of flesh as his index finger circled the puckered muscles of Arden’s intimate opening. The fey bucked onto his questing fingers, unspoken want telegraphed in his urgent movements.

Clint wet his index finger with saliva and returned to lazily tease Arden while his head bobbed slowly up and down the fey’s length. He felt Victor’s breath ghosting along his ass, and felt the larger man’s tongue laving a path from his sack to his anus. Victor’s sideburns dragged a delicious burn along the sensitive skin of his thighs and buttocks and he mewled with pleasure. The pleasure was increased when Victor’s hands twisted during his stroking of Clint’s member, the sensation bringing a white heat of explosion in his head.

“Ah, fuck,” he gasped aloud.

“That felt good, baby?” Victor murmured, breaths ghosting against his pucker. “I’m gonna eat you out now.”

Clint felt his lower torso being lifted and several pillows were shoved against his lower back. Arden had moved so he was straddling Clint’s head, his pucker winking invitingly above him as he swooped down on Clint’s cock. The fey’s mouth felt like warm velvet and wet silk, teasing out a fresh flow of precum out from him. His body jerked involuntarily when he felt Victor’s mouth against his opening, his cheeks spread wide by the man’s huge hands. He lost himself to the delicious feel of being rimmed out by the larger man, luxuriated in the wet heated insides of Arden’s mouth as they slid along his length.

Victor teased his opening with a finger, thick and calloused as they circled around the pucker with purpose. Once sensing his relaxed state, he pushed his finger inside to slide along the inner walls of Clint’s being. Clint spread his legs wider, grasping the larger man’s biceps with his left hand. His right hand was stroking Arden’s thighs, ass and leaking cock.

Victor introduced a second finger, to his delightful whimper and he lifted his head to take Arden into his mouth. The hum of approval from the fey as he repaid Clint’s ministrations with renewed gusto sent the archer to the upper reaches of delights. He felt Victor’s fingers skating along something inside him that made his cock throb harder and his toes curl. His tensed muscles had Victor smiling as he licked and nipped at the archer’s muscular thighs. The larger man crooked his fingers, hitting that nub inside him again and Clint howled. It was too much, too soon and Clint whimpered in agonised pleasure when he felt his release coming.

“Shit! I’m gonna cum—!” he gasped, his breath juddering. He grasped Arden’s head and thrust deep into the fey’s mouth, feeling the glottal muscles pulsating around his cock as his orgasm crested.

The fey—not needing to breathe—kept at his task, wanting to savour the archer’s seed on his tongue. Clint’s ministrations on his own cock had his release coming not too far away. He was rewarded when he felt the man’s cock throb hard in his mouth, and spurts after spurts of pearly release coated his tongue and mouth. He lifted his head and grabbed Victor in a kiss, sharing the archer’s essence with the larger man.

“Fuck, Clint,” Victor growled, licking Arden’s lips. “You taste amazing.”

“I’m close,” Arden told the archer. “Where do you want it?”

Clint didn’t answer him but somehow managed to smile around Arden’s cock. Victor moved to position himself behind Arden, affording Clint an intimate view of the man’s impressive cock and round muscular ass. He made quick work of prepping Arden with his saliva and sheathed himself inside the fey’s opening in one glorious stroke. Arden took it like a champ, the only response to the entry was a litany of “fuck me, fuck me hard,” as he nuzzled at Clint’s groin.

A few intense minutes later, Clint could see Arden’s balls draw up against his body as he threw his head back and hissed as his orgasm left him trembling. Thick and creamy, Clint felt Arden’s release hit his tongue as he saw Victor’s pace juddering as he was milked by the muscles of Arden’s inner passage. A stray pearly drop hit his forehead, making him realise that Victor had cummed inside Arden; the stray drop leaking out from the fey. He released Arden’s cock from his mouth, lifted his head and licked a stripe along Arden’s perineum to his opening, and Victor’s length still embedded inside. He licked alongside the impressive girth, making both the fey and the mutant moan at the feel of his tongue lapping at the intimate juncture of their connected bodies. Clint grinned and moved out from the hunkering forms of the fey and his lover.

“Wow,” he huffed out.

Victor peeked out from where his face was nestled on Arden’s back, slowly easing himself out from his lover. “Wow, indeed.”

“Lemme get us cleaned up,” Clint offered as he made to move.

“No need,” Arden’s voice stopped him.

Wisps of charcoal-coloured translocational mists—Arden’s teleport signature—coursed along and across his body. The same wisps of mists were coursing across Victor and Arden’s forms as well, leaving them cleansed, if not slightly weary from their activity.

Victor grabbed his hand as he gently tumbled to the side, taking Arden with him. Clint let the larger man pull him down into a deep kiss, lifting up only to pay the same attention to Arden.

“Want to stay the night?” Victor asked.

“On one condition,” Clint replied.

“And that is?” Arden asked him. 

“Arden be in the middle.”

“Why?”

Clint blushed slightly. “Just want to see a handsome raven-haired man sandwiched between us two blond studs.”

“I have no arguments to that,” Arden said with a grin. “Victor, do you?”

“As long as we get turns fucking each other.” 

Clint buried his face in a pillow. These two will be the death of him.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wargames. The fey show their mettle.

Loki tugged the cloak tighter around him, a small childish gesture hoping the action will shield him from the casual scrutiny from the people around him. The air was not exceptionally cold, with only the barest nip in the air. He could feel the oh-so-casual glances thrown his way like ants on his scalp. The look in two pairs of blue eyes—one ice blue while the other the shade of a summer sky—in particular drove almost to distraction. 

The ice – blue eyes belonged to the mentalist, Christabel. The fey had not been particularly subtle in her frank observation. He had learned from his dinner with the witch and Captain Rogers that the blonde fey ruled over a sizable realm of her own and despite the almost ethereal appearance could he an intractable opponent and a formidable fighter. She was clad today a shirt of chainmail over her long-sleeved blouse and camel coloured breeches. A rapier and a long knife were tucked at her belt. 

Something about her sublime confidence—almost bordering on arrogance—reminded him of one of Rogers’ former team members. The one they call Moondragon. He mused silently to himself how the fey would fare when matched against the other woman.

He allowed himself a small smile of amusement. It would be an interesting fight, if nothing else.

The other pair of eyes belongs to Rogers himself. He had been more subtle than the blonde fey, and while not as blatantly frank there was a certain quality in the look in his eyes that made Loki uncomfortable. He knew that Rogers is an honourable man. He would not break the rules of hospitality while being a guest of the shadowfey king. However, that does not mean he could not provoke Loki subtly to create a conflict where the Asgardian could be identified as the instigator. While that particular stratagem seemed too subtle for Rogers—he would guess the Black Widow most likely to employ such method—he appreciated the man’s grasp of tactics and strategies. 

Loki looked around the promontory they had climbed. The dwarrows and the troll from the banquet hall when he had first arrived in Shadivari had accompanied Rogers, Romanoff, Barton, Creed and Cargill on their climb. Christabel had been their guide in their trek to reach the promontory. 

“What are we doing here?” Romanoff asked the blonde fey. Her dark green eyes flicked around, taking in their surroundings. 

The fey held up a hand in a quieting gesture. Her voice was hushed as she pointed up at the horizon and answered, “Look.”

There were several specks of dark against the grey sky, picked out starkly by the light of the ever-present moon. As they neared, Clint’s sharp eyes could identify the figure in the lead as Adam.

The werebeast’s golden wings thrusted him through the air at great speed. Behind him was Arden, seeming to flicker amongst the wisps of charcoal tendrils emanating from him. Jorinda was riding a giant owl the size of a carriage. The bird’s snowy feathers standing starkly against the darker background of the sky. Bringing the rear was Adria and her twin Reuben—the golden-haired fey who had been his warden when he placed under custody—flying under their own power. As his mage-sight told him that the two of them were psychics Loki assumed they were flying telekinetically. 

Adam reached the promontory first. The werebeast gave a slow circle before landing silently on his feet before them. His wings folded behind his back, the tailfeathers dragging slightly on the ground behind him. Arden disappeared from his flight path in wisps of black trails to materialise next to him.

“I didn’t know you can fly,” Creed had commented. 

“It’s not actual flying,” Arden explained. “I basically fold myself between spaces and dimensions in mid-air.”

“Why not just teleport straightaway?” Romanoff asked.

“Several reasons. I like feeling the wind on my face. And there is the part about training the ability to act instinctively.”

Romanoff nodded in understanding. Loki could see that Rogers, Barton and Creed doing the same gesture. Only Cargill looked perplexed.

“Mind elaborating?” Loki found himself asking.

“Translocation is activated mentally. I’m honing to the point it can be activated immediately.”

“And how is that going?” Barton asked with a grin.

“Quite well,” Arden replied. “We’re about to find out how well,” the fey added with a wink.

Barton’s eyebrows rose.

“Wargames,” Christabel answered the unspoken question. She turned to Cargill. “Similar to the combat simulations you have.”

“A Danger Room session?” the mutant asked as she grinned. “This should be interesting. Can I join?”

Arden shook his head. “Not for the first round,” he said. “And not because we doubt your abilities.”

“We play for keeps,” Adam added with a rumble of evil-sounding laughter.

“What, last fey standing?” Cargill asked, an undercurrent of challenge in her voice.

“Ha!” Adam snorted. Behind him Adria and Reuben were chuckling at the exchange. 

Jorinda sighed. “You might as well tell them,” she said. “It’s not like it is a huge secret.”

Arden cleared his throat, a slight cast of discomfort on his face. “During our wargames we don’t hold back. Essentially, we do our best to kill each other.”

Loki’s eyebrows rose at that statement. A combat simulation where opponents try their best to kill one another? Either these fey are incredibly skilled fighters or incredibly foolhardy. He glanced around at the Avengers. 

Barton had let out a slow whistle at the fey. Cargill, Creed and Romanoff looked intrigued at the concept. Rogers was aghast. Loki was not surprised at the captain’s expression. Soldier he might be but Rogers also valued life.

“A promising spectacle,” Loki said as he shifted his stance. The movement brought him closer to Rogers. “I’m sure they know what they’re doing,” he murmured the aside to the other man.

Steve glanced at him and nodded. Despite his initial misgivings he had to admit he is interested to see how these feys fight. Perhaps their tactics could be used for their own in the future. Natasha looked at him, understanding without him having to say it. She subtly glanced at Jory, drawing Steve’s eyes to the witch.

Jory had dispensed with her usual garb of empire-styled dresses and was wearing a different outfit that was both practical and battle-ready. A deep olive green, waist-length overcoat studded with rivets and belted at the waist covered her to the elbows. The opened collar showed a peek of what seems to be a leather jerkin. Buckskin breeches and greaves covered and protected her legs. A short spear was strapped to her back, with three pouches belted at the waist. 

Adria and her twin were dressed identically. The leather armour hugged the female and did not leave any of her feminine attributes to the imagination. A pair of wakizashis were strapped to her thighs from a pair of garter-like holsters. Her forearms were lined with a row of sharp-edged disks. Steve would guess they were projectiles in the nature of shurikens. 

Reuben was dressed in a similar armour made of leather, except it was not as tight as his sister being made along masculine lines. The addition of a breastplate made of banded metal covered his chest, back and front torso. Instead of the disks lining his forearms, a brace of daggers were strapped at his waist and the bandoleer crossing his chest.

Adam wearing a similar type of breastplate, except it was bare at the back to allow for his wings. A heavy mace hung from the belt of his knee-length leather trousers. His feet were bare.

Compared to his companions, Arden was clearly underdressed. Like Adam, he was barefooted. A pair of black leather breeches and an off-shoulder tunic belted with an obi belt left his right shoulder and arms bare. A curved dagger—like a jambiya—with a prong extended from the hilt on the blade’s outer curve seemed to be his only weapons. 

Loki surmised that the shadowfey did not require much in the ways of weapons. His magical abilities seems to be potent enough if anything he had learned of these creatures. Loki was interested in learning more about the shadowfey king and his spellweaver friend. 

For his part Steve was fascinated by this heretofore unknown aspect of Jorinda. He had seen her cast several spells before. He was not a trained observer but from the way the other feys seem to accord respect and a healthy amount of veneration he would guess she was a powerful witch. He had not even entertained the thought that she was a skilled fighter.

As a matter of fact, none of them had seen the feys fight before.

“Ready?” Christabel’s voice broke through Steve’s musings. 

“Ready,” came Arden’s reply. It was echoed by the others. 

The fey burst into movement. Arden dissipated in his trademark wisps of coal-coloured mist. Jory and Christabel dashed down the promontory while Adria, Reuben and Adam took to the air. Arden materialised behind the three fliers, sending bolts of darkness before disappearing. The bolts caught Adam on his side, sending him careening away before the werebeast managed to right himself. Reuben had deflected the bolts directed towards him and Adria with a shimmering golden shield composed of telekinetic energy.

Down the promontory, Christabel squared off against Jory. The blonde mentalist handled her rapier like a swashbuckler in an Erroll Flynn movie, Cargill’s murmured statement came to Steve’s ears. The witch batted the lightning-fast blade with her shortspear, whirling it in wide sweeps to keep the blonde at bay.

“Christabel is a telepath,” Natasha muttered. “Why isn’t she using her power on Jory?”

Gared chuckled. The dwarrow explained to the redhead that Jory’s spell resistance works even against direct psionic interface.

“So Adria and Reuben can’t touch her telekinetically?” Natasha asked, her eyebrows raised.

“It depends on the degree of focus the psi exerts on his effort,” Gared said with a shrug. “From my own observations, four out of five times results in a failure.”

“Her spell resistance is uncommonly high,” Harald added. “Most witches are resistant to lower-level spells.”

“How many levels are there?” Rogers asked.

“Nine,” Harald answered. “Lady Jorinda has mastered all nine of them.”

“So she is immune to all spells?” Romano asked.

“It is a bit more involved than that. The more focused and talented the spellcaster is, the better the chances of penetrating the spell resistance,” was Harald’s response.

“She is not immune to certain things,” Gared said. “Direct spell effects like a lightning bolt, or spell-like abilities like telepathic or telekinetic attack will have to bypass her spell resistance first.”

“Direct interface does not work, you say?” Loki asked. 

“The energy will just fizzle,” Gared confirmed.

“There are spells that can bypass it, though,” Loki noted.

“A summoned creature is not a magical creation, and conjuration effects bypasses it entirely.”

“So there is nothing to save her from a boulder thrown telekinetically, or teleported on top of her,” Natasha said, picking up on Loki’s line of thought. 

Gared grinned. “Trust me, she had already taken that into account.”

“I’m sure she did,” Loki drawled. “A formidable woman, indeed.”

Loki returned his attention to the battle between the two female fey. The telepath and the witch seemed to be matched in fighting skills. The blonde moved like quicksilver, darting in and out trying to score a hit with her rapier. The witch in the other hand was like a willow tree, bending against thrives but not giving any quarter. The sharp tip of her spear occasionally almost made contact with the blonde.

The blonde whipped her hand suddenly, a small dagger sent whirling from her hand. The witch just barely spun in time, the dagger tracing a small cut against the side of her neck. Christabel moved in, in her careless haste missing the butt of the spear catching her solidly in her gut.

Loki heard a small hiss from Barton. “That’s gotta sting,” the archer commented. 

The two females backed away, eyeing each other as they circled away from the other.

Adria had flown close to the ground, coming behind the witch. Jorinda was thrown to the ground as the dark-haired mentalist barrelled into her. The impact caused the shortspear to drop from her hands, as Adria bore her to the ground. The two women were now grappling, where it was obvious that Adria was clearly the better fighter—landing blows on Jorinda’s face and sides with her knees and elbows. 

“Perhaps not so formidable, after all,” Loki commented airily. The comment drew censorious looks from Rogers, Cargill and Romanoff. 

The dwarrow Gared chuckled again. “Just watch.”

The limp form of the witch that Adria was grappling seemed to fold in on itself before fading from sight. The dark-haired fey hissed in annoyance before turning towards Christabel. 

“It was an illusion,” Gared explained. “She was never there to begin with. Now Adria and Christabel are going to join forces against her.”

A loud boom of thunder drew their attention to the sky where Adam and Reuben were fighting Arden. The shadowfey’s skin had taken on a dark gray cast, and he seemed almost translucent. Adam’s heavy mace seemed to be doing no damage at all, passing through him with no ill effects to Arden. Each blow that passed through him unleashed crackling bolts of black lightning towards the werebeast, who weaved in and out unerringly to avoid the returning attacks. He was almost hit once, one bolt grazing his left wing as Adam executed a graceful tumble in mid-air. 

Arden was cloaked in a coruscating nimbus of electricity that crackled and boomed whenever Reuben’s telekinetic strikes hit him. Much like Adam’s attack each hit caused a stroke of lightning to arc towards the golden-haired fey. For the moment his protective shield held but Loki doubted he could remain aloft and maintain the shield against the constant battery of electrical barrage from Arden. Using his mage-sight, Loki could see hairline cracks beginning to form on the shield’s surface.

The blue-skinned fey—a troll, Loki remembered—hummed in contemplation. “Lord Gold is sorely outmatched,” he noted in his deep voice.

“You think?” came Creed’s playful rejoinder. There was a touch of pride in the feral mutant’s voice as he looked up at his lover battering away at the other fey. 

Creed’s sense of pride was justified when Arden made a gesture. A second later the interior of the telekinetic globe were wreathed in tongues of black fire. A cry of pained surprise came from the now-hidden mentalist.

“He now has two choices. Disperse the protective glove and face Arden’s lightning bolts or try to blindly fly to safety,” Creed commented. 

“He can just create a second field inside to smother the flames,” Cargill pointed out. 

“Magical fire,” the troll said by way of explanation. “They’ll keep burning until the caster dismiss them.”

Reuben then surprised them with an unforeseen tactic. The golden-haired mentalist increased the radius of his protective globe in an explosive burst. The tongues of black flames spread out along the insides but they’re no longer a hazard to the fey. Now that they could see the outer barriers of the telekinetic globe, it ranged out to a ninety-feet radius. The explosive burst caught Arden, the force effect bypassing his immaterial form.

The impact against the expanded telekinetic globe jarred him out of his immaterial form, Loki could see the shadowy cast of his skin bleeding out back to his usual olive complexion. Adam took the opportunity to slam into him, ignoring the arcs of electricity dancing along his skin as the werebeast grappled with the shadowfey. Seeing Arden occupied, Reuben turned his attention to the ground.

Steve saw that Jory had discarded her shortspear and instead were using two metal rods when facing against Adria and Christabel. The clangs of blades against the rods resounded sharply across the wide basin. Steve could see that the witch is formidably skilled but it is also obvious that Adria and Christabel are clearly the better fighters. They have yet to manage to flank Jory thanks to her quick footwork and reflexes. Now that Reuben is entering the fray however, Steve was not sure how long the witch could last. 

Adria unleashed a wave of telekinetic energy. They could see little sparks dancing in the air when the wave connected with the witch as they battled against her spell resistance. A small portion of the force seemed to have bypassed her resistance, sending her skidding ten feet back on her feet. It was only when Jory smiled that the onlookers realised she had planned it all along.

The witch traced a rune in the air, sending it flying towards Christabel. The impact surrounded the blonde fey in arcs of blue energy. She staggered to her feet, dropping her rapier and off-hand dagger as she started clawing at her throat.

“Suffocation spell,” Harald murmured. “It seems our Witch Maiden can be quite nasty when she wants to be.”

Loki shuddered as he remembered the witch threatening him with the fiery spell during their first encounter. He has proof enough the witch is not one to be trifled with.

Adria had pressed her attacks, unleashing bolts of telekinetic energy as she advanced. Her earlier advantage had disappeared with Christabel put of the fight. Her aim now seems to be focused on ensuring that the witch does not have another opportunity to cast another spell. She had included sending the loose debris from the basin floor in her telekinetic barrage. The impact of the rocks and small stones did not seem to faze the witch.

“Stoneskin,” Harald murmured, in response to Steve’s enquiring look. “It grants physical invulnerability to most melee attacks.”

“She had this all planned beforehand,” Natasha mused, a note of respect in her voice.

“She’s a smart cookie,” Clint said, nudging Steve with a wink.

Steve couldn’t help the smile that spread slowly across his face. “I guess so,” he said softly.

Victor and Cargill chuckled at his bashful tone.

Reuben had moved in. His attack was not directed at Jory but the ground around her. Explosive bursts or silt and rocks rose as he hammered away with multiple telekinetic strikes. The ground the witch stood became slowly but surely unsteady, with rubble and debris penning her in.

She disappeared in a a burst of starry motes to reappear two hundred metres away from the twins. She traced another rune in the air, Steve’s sharp eyes and eidetic memory picking up that it was the same gesture she had made when attacking Christabel. 

Reuben started floundering in his protective globe. The golden-haired fey clutched at his throat, doubling over in gasps as the air was purged from his lungs. His concentration wavered, his flight path juddering as he struggled to maintain his airborne advantage. 

Loki could see the protective globe dissipating when he lost it; maintaining his flight took all his concentration. Obviously that was Jorinda’s cue. She made a sweeping gesture towards the sky with one hand, her other hand pointing at the other fey. The wisps of clouds gathered thickened, roiling as they converged towards the basin and the witch who commanded them. Faint tendrils from the dark clouds threaded towards the ground.

“Is that ..?” Barton choked on his exclamation as the tendrils gathered together to form a whirling column of tornado heading towards Adria and Reuben.

The milky glow of Adria’s telekinesis surrounded the raven-haired fey, coalescing into a large dome encapsulating both her and her twin. The impact of the tornado was thunderous, but Adria’s protective shield held. Loki saw through his magesight that the composition of her construct was far more sturdy than her brother.

The younger dwarrow murmured, “Lady Adria’s telekinesis is not as refined as her brother but it surpasses his in terms of strength.”

Loki nodded. He was slightly chagrined at the thought of unconsciously voicing his thoughts out loud.

“Protected, but kept out of the fight,” Romanoff noted approvingly. 

“They certainly played for keeps,” Rogers agreed.

The witch kept her pet tornado centred on the protective field, effectively keeping the two mentalists out of the fight. Seeing nothing happening at the moment, Loki turned his attention back towards the sky.

Arden and Adam were circling one another in the air. The shadowfey had discarded his immaterial form, going on the offensive by slinging arcs of black lightning towards the werebeast. Adam evaded most of them, getting glancing hits thanks to his speed and dextrous maneuverability. 

Loki could not but feel the shadowfey was toying with the werebeast. From what he had picked up during his conversation with the others there were distinct hints that the Lord of Shadivari was just as powerful as the Witch Maiden. The only difference would be that while the witch’s arsenal comes from her extensive repertoire of spells, the shadowfey’s eldritch abilities were inborn.

The supposition was proven when Adam tried to flank Arden by flying under him. The shadowfey unleashed a coruscating blast of sonic wave that caught the werebeast square in the chest. The impact detonated with a loud crack, reverberating into the very air and ground around them. The werebeast dropped from the air, landing with a loud thud.

“What the fuck was that?” Creed growled, wincing when he saw the werebeast hit the ground.

“Have you ever had multiple doors slam in your house forcefully?” the younger dwarrow asked. Several nods met his question. He explained further, “Now imagine thousands of translocational doors, slammed very quickly at the same time ...”

“It generates a concussive sonic force,” Cargill finished.

“Just so.”

Arden faded from midair to reappear next to Jorinda. Laughing words were exchanged and the two of them shook hands. The witch made a dismissive gesture and her tamed tornado slowly dissipated into gentle gusts of breeze.

“If the last people standing are Lord Arden and Lady Jory, the two will just declare a tie,” the troll murmured with a small smile.

“Why won’t they fight?” Romanoff asked. “Shouldn’t those two be evenly matched?”

“If you are talking about actual power levels, you would be correct,” the younger dwarrow agreed. “The deciding factor would be those powers brought to the fight.”

Romanoff tilted her head, allowing him to continue in the brief pause that ensued. 

“Lady Jory can certainly deal whole barrage of spells, one after another. It’s safe to say that at least a third of them might even hurt Lord Arden.”

“Because of his various abilities,” Cargill added. “No need to breathe, immune to poisons and toxins, intangibility ...”

“To name a few,” the dwarrow confirmed.

“So what can Arden do to Jory?” Barton asked, his eyes shrewd.

“A lot,” the troll answered grimly. “An elementar’s abilities are neither spells nor spell-like abilities. They are innate abilities that are seemingly magical.” 

“I don’t understand,” Creed cut in. “They seem pretty magical to me.”

Barton nodded in agreement. “Maybe you could give an example?”

“A dragon’s fiery breath,” came the answer. 

Steve raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure which is more worrying: the fact that you have dragons here, or that it takes a dragon to kill a witch.”

Natasha chuckled darkly. “He meant the dragon’s fiery breath can bypass spell resistance, Rogers!” she pointed out before sobering slightly. “I’m pretty sure a dragon can handle anyone.”

Gared’s answering chuckle was just as dark as hers. He pointedly glanced at Arden.

Clint let out a low whistle. “He tangled with a dragon,” the archer mumbled wonderingly. “Of course he did.”

Loki stayed silent. Barton’s comment nagged at him. At the back of his mind, little tendrils of worry started worming themselves through.

These fey boast enough concentrated power to rival the might of Asgard. The level of technology may be lower, even if compared against current Midgardian standards but their magical abilities could very well offset that. If these few—and admittedly they are the paragons of their kind—are just an example of their kind then Loki hoped fervently that their internecine battles do not end any time soon. Best keep a potential rival away. Heimdall’s sight could not even pierce the barrier that hides their world from others. What other magical feats can these creatures accomplish should they pour their efforts into it?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arden and Clint fight. The nature of magic.

“You are awfully quiet,” Clint heard the soft murmur of Arden’s voice against his ear. 

He was sitting on the bed, Arden’s lean arms wrapped loosely around his waist from behind. The archer turned his head, a rueful smile on his lips before it captured Arden’s in a soft kiss. 

It was only the two of them on the bed, Victor having left to accompany Steve, Adam, Gared, Harald and Christabel on a hunting trip for four nights.

Arden had opted out due to his duties, and preparing for a royal visit to the Mother of the Witches in the Arboreal Islands. The visit would begin in seven days with Arden, Jory, Adria and Adam joined by the Avengers and Cargill. Victor had convinced Clint to stay and keep Arden company.

Seeing the gratefully fond look in Arden’s dark eyes he was glad he decided to remain at the palace.

The feral blond had left at the start of the day, after having made love energetically to his two lovers. Clint could feel both of his lovers’ seed seeping out of him, the delicious wetness marking him.

Clint had decided that sex with men could be pleasurable, after all. Taking to the experience like a duck to water he had surprised himself by the lovemaking he had participated for the last two weeks.

His favourite was so far was their lovemaking last night. Victor had fucked him when they first started, his thrust gentle and deep. Arden was draped alongside Clint on the bed, kissing him on the lips, cheek and neck while he stroked Clint in time to Victor’s languid thrusts. Clint and Victor then switched positions. The other man had Arden impaled on his thick shaft while he lay flat on his back on the bed. Clint had wrapped his arms around the fey while thrusting shallowly inside Victor. Victor’s hands were stroking his forearms as he mapped his questing hands up and down Arden’s thighs and straining cock. Both of them stroked the fey to bone-numbing orgasm, his cry of release joined by healthy spurts of milky semen all over Victor’s broad chest.

Clint and Victor had cummed seconds apart. As Arden’s tight anal passage convulsed with his release, it milked Victor’s own orgasm that in turned sparked Clint’s own release.

They had rested for about five minutes before Arden rose, his cock erect and demanding attention. Victor complied, taking the fey into his mouth, eliciting mewls of pleasure from Arden. Clint used the lubricating oil supplied from their earlier lovemaking to prepare himself. The sensation of his fingers opening him up sent a slow welcome burn up his spine. His previously half- hard cock returned to full mast, anticipating the long slow strokes Arden would perform inside him.

It was only the two of them, face to face with Arden on top. Victor sat on his haunches, lazily stroking himself as he watched them. A fond smile was on his lips. Occasionally the bigger man would sensually stroke their head, or any parts of their body with a low rumble of contentment.

Clint had his legs wrapped around Arden’s waist as the fey’s hips undulated with his thrusts. The head of Arden’s cock skated along his prostate, sending jolts of pleasure that had him gasping further encouragements. His release came not too soon, both the nudging on his prostate and the erotic rub of Arden’s lean torso against his cock chasing him over the edge. He felt Arden’s release after several minutes. The feeling of warmth as his seed erupted within Clint eked out another small gasp, his cock dribbling slightly with a small gush of semen.

The increasing speed of Victor’s strokes told them the larger man was close. Clint stretched out his neck. His mouth open in invitation that Victor readily accepted. Warm fluid filled his mouth, thick and tangy. He shared it with Arden, capturing the fey’s mouth in a scorching kiss as they swap Victor’s seed among them. Victor joined them, turning the kisses into languid worships before leaving Clint afloat in the afterglow.

 

When he woke up, Victor was already gone. Arden was next to him, turned towards him. The fey’s hand was resting on his chest, lazily tracing random patterns. He sat up, moving his legs to the edge of the enormous bed.

“We have four days without Victor,” Arden noted. His voice soft, the words sending faint touches of air against his neck.

“He wants us to get to know one another,” Clint replied.

“We had best not disappoint him then.”

Arden called for breakfast to be sent. After a light repast of soft-boiled eggs and toast accompanied by a rich raspberry preserve and honeyed tea Arden requested that he put on a suit of armour made of plated leather.

“There’s a reason for this?” Clint asked as he donned the armour.

“We are going to spar with the guards,” Arden replied with a smile.

“You can hurl lightning bolts, or just teleport away,” Clint pointed out. “Why do you need to spar?”

“Same reason you do when you run out of arrows,” Arden retorted playfully.

“Fair enough.”

Clint slyly observed Arden as they made their way to the training grounds. Clint had some experience in observing Royalty—and their equivalents—in his line of work but Arden’s behaviour and the way he carried himself was not what he expected.

The shadowfey did not put on airs. He strode confidently through the hallways, sparing a nod of acknowledgment to nobles and servants alike. On three separate occasions he even paused to hold brief conversations with some of those he met. From remembering an elderly noble’s wedding anniversary to assisting a maid in moving a chaise lounge, Arden did not differentiate between classes. Despite being addressed with the honorific  _My Lord_ the exchanges were casual, even playful.

Clint ventured a guess that Arden’s long life span had more or less eroded the need for deference. There would be no need to throw his crown around if he is practically immortal.

The training ground was a hubbub of activity. A squad—most likely rookies—were practising drills. Groups of six each were training with various weapons. Clint paused momentarily to observe two of the feys sparring.

The elf male was wielding twin short swords. His movements were swift and deadly. His strikes stopped whenever they were parried or blocked, and he was always quick to response with a kick, or another riposte from his other hand. His footwork traced a triangular placing, something that clint noted as a basic fencer movements.

His opponent—a male fey of unknown breed—was using a length of spiked chain. Despite the obvious choice of the weapon as a reach weapon, it did not hamper the other fey when pressed into close quarters. He was quick to throw in an elbow, or using a shortened loop of the chain as a flail.

The deadly elegance of the two combatants held his attention as he took in their skills.

“Raya is deadly with the chain,” Arden commented. “Galen is quick but his footwork is basic. If he’s not careful, Raya might trip him up.”

Just as Arden finished speaking, the fey Raya sent one end of the chain whipping at Galen’s ankles. He managed to lift his left foot but not his right as the chain caught it. Raya jerked the chain and Galen ended up on the ground face-forward. Raya twisted the length of his chain—the shortened chain lifted Galen’s bound ankle up—as he placed one foot on Galen’s back. Clint winced.

“Raya’s nasty,” the archer noted.

“Aeriads usually are,” Arden agreed. “They’re temperamental and passionate.”

“An aeriad?”

“A type of air elementar. Their abilities are tied to speed and lightning. With the exception of the werebeasts and dryads, no other fey can match their speed.”

The two fey broke apart as they noticed Clint and Arden. They made to fall to their knees, but a slight wave of Arden’s hand stopped them.

“My Lord Arden,” Galen nodded at them. “Master Barton.”

Clint raised an eyebrow.  _Master Barton, huh?_

Raya grinned at them. Clint could now see that the feys eyes are catlike, and completely blue with no irises or pupils. “Are you two going to spar?” the aeriad asked.

Arden glanced at Clint, his lips pursed in contemplation.

“I’m game if you are,” Clint said with a shrug. “Just so you know I’m not gonna pull my punches.”

Arden smiled at him. “I have no doubt about that,” he said. Turning to Galen and Raya. “I assume you two are done for the day?”

“The court is yours, my Lord,” Galen answered, gesturing to the square.

“Shall we?” Arden murmured. “You may choose your weapons from the rack over there.”

Clint looked over the selection of weapons. He selected a brace of broad-bladed daggers. His fingers twitched when he saw a beautiful composite longbow made from sturdy ash. He fingered the smooth haft reverently, wondering at the range of the weapon.

“Hundred and fifty feet,” Galen said. At Clint’s querying look, he motioned to the longbow. “A flat trajectory range of one hundred-fifty feet.” The fey paused, before smiling shyly. “Lord Arden mentioned that you are quite the bowman. Would you mind sharing some of your skills with me?”

“Why not?” Clint agreed with a grin.

He picked up a scimitar, testing the weapon’s fine balance. Although plain, it was evident the scimitar was a masterwork. He saw that Arden had selected two of the same curved daggers with the prongs he had worn during their wargames before.

The fey turned to him, twirling the two daggers on his hands with easy grace. “Shall we?” he asked, cockily.

Clint followed him onto the sparring court. He could sense others around them slowly turning still as they paused in their own exercises to take note of their leader sparring with one of the otherworlder visitors.

Clint went on the offensive, taking two strides forward and slashing diagonally upwards then twisting his wrist and bringing in down. Arden sidestepped the first slash, his movements fluid and quick like a dancer. He blocked the second strike with his left hand, Clint finding out what those prongs are for on those curved daggers when it trapped his blade—like the prongs of a sai. A twist of Arden’s wrist snatched the scimitar from his grip and sent it flying away. Even as he felt his grip loosen around the scimitar’s grip, Clint’s other hand had drawn one of the broad-bladed daggers and brought it slashing towards Arden’ torso. The fey skipped back, crossing his daggers in guard position. Clint drew another dagger, holding them ready as he crouched. He grinned at Arden.

Arden raised an eyebrow and advanced, his strides quicker than Clint expected but he was ready. He had read the fey’s eyes correctly and was ready for a kick from one of the fey’s long legs towards one of his hands. Instead of backing away he moved in, trapping the fey’s leg in the crook of its targeted arm. Arden pivoted in mid-air, the heel of his other feet caught him square on the temple.

Clint backed away, his vision spinning. Arden had gotten up slowly from his crouch on the ground. Clint feinted to the left, but Arden had anticipated it. He met Clint with blades flashing. Their daggers met with a clash of steely rasp. Clint kneed him in the pit of his stomach. Arden gasped out, but did a quick pivot and swept a leg out to catch Clint’s knees. The archer stumbled, and the fey followed through on his spin to execute an agile flip around his torso with one leg circled around him. The move added Arden’s weight into the momentum and Clint found himself on his back with the breath knocked out of him.

Clint got up, facing Arden. The fey threw him a furious look when he caught Clint’s eye. The look melted into one of exasperated fondness when the fey caught him in a loose embrace.

“I adore the fact that you are holding back, Clint,” Arden said, kissing the tip of his nose. “I am not certain if I should feel flattered, however.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Clint said, blushing slightly at the kiss. He wrapped his arms around the fey’s waist. He brought his forehead to meet Arden’s. “Best of three?”

Arden’s answering kiss told him the apology was accepted.

* * *

 

Loki perched on the stone bench as he observed the sparring grounds from the balcony where he and Jorinda were ensconced. The witch had invited him to watch Arden and Clint spar. It was not exactly a common occurrence that the Lord of Shadivari will join the warriors on the sparring courts. He usually holds private session with a selection of fighters, namely Adam, the deadly Adria and the fencer Christabel. From the way people were gossiping, the werebeast and the dark-haired mentalist were the deadlier of the four. The werebeast owing to his sheer strength—twice that of Rogers, Jorinda had volunteered the information—and the sultry fey due to sheer viciousness.

Loki was not quite sure if he agreed with the assessment. He had been observing Arden, and it looks he is skilled enough to take on any one of the Warriors Three. His fighting style was graceful in its fluidity and devastating in its impact. He was both the cutting bite of a winter wind and the sudden flash of lightning in his attacks. He had seen similar style with the Black Widow. The difference was Romanoff focused on the outcome, while Arden seem to delight in the actual process itself. The sahdowfey moved as if trained in the art of the opening flower discipline. His long legs flashed as he executed lightning fast kicks and executed fluid footwork. His daggers were deadly as he worried at Barton’s defence. Loki was well aware that the archer rivals Rogers and Romanoff in fighting skills but Arden seemed to get through his defences with an almost-childish ease.

Of course, with his long-lifespan the fey would have had experience aplenty.

“It’s not often that he finds someone who could give him an actual workout,” Jorinda murmured, a small smile on her face as she took in Clint and Arden circling each other.

“He does seem like a skilled fighter,” Loki allowed.

Jorinda laughed, her laughter tinkling like wind chimes. Loki found that her voice had an unexpected soothing effect on him. He could see why Rogers was so taken in by the witch. Despite her power, she remained sweetly gracious and humble. Her extended invitation to him to take a turn around the palace with her was artlessly asked and he found that he could not deny her request.

The witch took his arm, appropriating him as her escort as she made to move away from the balcony. Loki stood from his seated position and accompanied her as they left the balcony and walked towards the arched gallery overlooking the gardens.

The fey beauty of the garden reminded him of his mother’s own garden back in the palace at Asgard. The difference with the gardens here was that the flowers predominantly white, standing in stark relief against the eternal twilight of the realm. From the pearly luster of jasmines to the snowy whiteness of snowdrops the layout was interspersed with splashes of colour from the velvety blue spread of grape hyacinths, or the splash of blood-red roses. Their walk took them to a gazebo with trellises threaded by rambling roses. She guided him towards one of the benches where Loki saw there was already a picnic basket ready on a small table.

“I thought we might want to talk, you and I,” she said as she moved to the basket.

“About what, exactly?” Loki asked, arching an eyebrow.

“About how you got here,” she answered him, placing a glass of chilled white wine in his hand.

“And you would trust whatever information I were to provide you?”

“I could always have Chris plunder your mind, if you prefer,” she glanced at him, smirking as she said it. It brought her full lips to his attention.

Loki licked his lips. Her sweetness and the playful verbal jousts served to unravel his reticence. He wondered—fleetingly—if Rogers had managed to resist her when they had first met.

 

“I was on an expedition,” he replied, simply.

“Any particular destination in mind?”

“Not in particular,” he shrugged. “I was using the empty spaces between the branches of Ygdrassil, which is why Heimdall could not see me.”

“The Ebon Pathways,” Jorinda supplied, nodding sagely. “That’s the term we use here among us.” She handed him a plate filled savoury pastries and a generous helping of spiced potatoes.

“And what do you call Ygdrassil’s branches?” he asked, curious despite himself. He helped himself to the food.

“The Silver Road,” she answered promptly with a smile. “If you don’t mind my going on a slightly different tangent?”

“Please,” he said, with a flick of his wrist.

“To us, magic is a force shaped like a tapestry that we call  _The Weave_ . There are three different ways to access it: the Art, the Craft, and the Way.”

“How are those three different?”

“The differences are more related to how it was accessed, rather than the access itself.”

“How so?”

“How did you first discover your magical abilities?” she asked him.

Loki paused, thinking on the first act of magic he had performed. “It was spontaneous,” he answered. “It was my mother’s naming day. I caused a stand of flowers to bloom.”

“And do you need to learn spells before you can cast them? Besides only learning them in theory?”

“No,” he said with a dawning realization.

“You are a sorcerer, your magic is inborn” she informed him. “You access the Weave through the Art; directly interfacing with it to create magical effects.”

“You do the same,” he pointed out.

Jorinda shook her head. “A witch accesses the Weave via the Craft,” she explained. “Our powers are a melding of the natural world and the raw essence of the Weave itself. Our spells are less flashy, but gets the same result with a slightly different spell effect.” She paused before pointing out with a small smile. “You noticed I do not actually shoot lightning bolts.”

Loki chuckled. “I had wondered about that,” he admitted with a small grin. “What about the Way?”

“The Way, for lack of a better word would be magical effects borne through faith.”

“Divinely-granted spells?” Loki hazarded.

“Your Midgardian worshippers did cast spells with your blessings, do they not?”

“Was there a reason why you asked if I have to learn spells before casting them?” he asked, remembering one of her earlier questions.

“Some do not have a natural affinity for magic, or desire access through an alternative means thereby expanding their magical portfolio,” she elaborated. “We call them wizards.”

 “Sounds overly powerful,” Loki murmured.

 

“In theory, yes,” Jorinda agreed. “The mind can only hold so much however, and arcane formulas can only be retained through experience. Wizards can cast any spells they have memorized but they are limited to a certain number per day dependent on their experience or aptitude.” She paused. “Once a spell was cast, it vanishes from their mind and has to be re-learned if a wizard wants to use it again.”

“A witch/wizard combination must be a fearsome opponent then,” Loki drawled, masking his discomfiture at this new information.

“Oh my, yes,” Jorinda agreed. “My sister in-law is one.”

Loki thought for a moment, ruminating on what she had told him. “If this … Weave is a tangible representation of magic,” he started. “It stands to reason that there is an opposite force, is there not?”

“Very good,” Jorinda nodded approvingly. “The Ebon Pathways for the Silver Road, then there is the Void for the Weave.”

“The spaces between,” Loki answered. “So who harnesses this … Void?”

“Shadowfeys, for one,” she answered. “You remember that Arden and I called truce during our wargames?”

Loki nodded. “Shadowfeys’ abilities are not magical, from what the dwarrows had told me,” Loki commented.

“They are a supernatural phenomenon,” Jorinda agreed. “Much like Cargill’s invulnerability and superhuman strength.”

“So what has this got to do with how I ended up here?”

“A lot, actually,” Jorinda said with a small moue of disgust. “Wielders of the Void, or creatures tied to the Void are not easily affected by the Weave …”

“But the reverse does not hold true for users of the Weave,” Loki stated, finishing her statement. “There was little you could do against Arden, but he could obliterate you if he wanted.”

“Supernatural attacks, nullifying some of my abilities, disruption of my magics …”

“Like my travelling spell,” Loki added, understanding dawning in him. “Besides the shadowfey, who else can access the Void?”

“There’s quite a few of the fey races,” she answered slowly, watching his reaction.

He stared at her, his face pale.

“We _are_ a magical race,” she pointed out gently. “With the exception of beings from the higher or lower planes, there are none quite like us.”

“You are right, I don’t believe there is any quite like you,” Loki said with a smile, delighted when the witch blushed.

“Flatterer,” she retorted, swatting his arm.

“The do call me ‘Silvertongue,’” he rebutted with a saucy wink.

 

Jorinda returned his sally with a stare, blinking almost owlishly. A moment later, she shook her head ruefully, saying, “You, my lord, are a menace.”

“Only to some,” he said with a nod. He spooned up a small helping of spiced potatoes, relishing the burst of flavours on his tongue. “This is good,” he commented.

They passed the time talking about their respective lives, Loki finding himself opening to the witch with surprising ease. Her gentle nature, and gracious manner made it easy to confide some of his fears and challenges growing up in Thor’s shadow. He felt that had he been found and raised in the Feywilds, he would have received a different upbringing. Jorinda glanced at him when he made that comment, her lips clamping and her expression closed off.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked with a small dose of chagrin.

“Not quite,” she answered. She looked away, drawing a long breath before turning back to face him. “It would appear that you would be lauded and welcomed due to your magical abilities. And I do not hold you at fault for drawing that conclusion.”

“Then what was your reaction about then?”

“You would have been trained to become a living weapon,” she answered him. “It is what us prodigies were trained for. Arden, Christabel, Reuben, Adria, myself, my siblings …” she trailed off.

“This is still a warzone,” he said, realisation dawning on him. “Albeit a beautiful one.”

“Not along the borders where the territories of Light neighbours the Dark,” she warned. “Had you ended up in Artak or Gahinna you would have been subjugated to endless tortures you would wish you were dead, and even then your powers would have been absorbed and used by them.” She paused. “Sometimes even death is not an escape here.”

Loki nodded. There was a hidden message in her explanation. “Did that happen to you?”

She gave him a sad smile. “Not to me,” she replied. “It happened to Arden. He was captured during one of the border skirmishes when he was ninety-seven years old. Held in captivity for thirty-six years before he was rescued by a company of mercenaries. They were led by the orc who would later become his husband.”

“And the Dark fey had his husband murdered,” Loki murmured, shuddering at the thought of what the shadowfey must have gone through. “He sees this as personal, then.”

“Arden takes  _everything_ personally,” Jorinda said wryly. “He is what some people from the Prime call a ‘Type A personality.’ But that is neither here nor there.”

Loki chuckled. “Does he know how you talk about him?”

“Most assuredly. Considering that I say them to his face, too!”

Loki guffawed. The witch has a pert streak that he found interesting. He found that despite her mortal lifespan—he had since learned that spellweavers have similar lifespans to humans—the witch had a rather unique worldview free from petty concerns that plague most. Perhaps it was the fact that her best friends are beings who have transcended the basic human limitations; those of lifespan, mind and physique.

He seized upon a sudden impulse. “Teach me,” he said aloud.

“Teach you the ways of the Craft?” she asked.

He nodded.

“When would you like to start?” she asked with a small smile, taking a sip from her wine.

“Now is as good a time as any, no?”

She looked at him for a moment, considering. “Let me see one of your daggers,” she demanded.

Loki handed it to her but she did not take the offered blade. She shook her head. “Bury it among the roots of the rose bushes. Mark the area with these sigils,” she instructed, tracing four different runes that glowed in the air.

He performed the task as instructed, leaning back onto the bench once he was done. “Why the dagger?”

“The rite of consecration. In the Craft, a witch uses his  _athame_ as a material focus,” she explained. “Some spells require them. It is also the tool that a witch uses to create runes and symbols of power.”

“And this  _athame_ is not to be profaned by bloodletting?”

“Only for the spells,” Jorinda confirmed. “It should not be used as a weapon.”

“So how long do we wait before the  _athame_ is consecrated?”

“It should be done by tonight,” she answered. “Now, let us go through the basic spells …”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve, Jory and Loki makes three.  
> So do Victor, Clint and Arden - - for an entirely different reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pattern Jory's character on Arwen from the LOTR films. And certain things about her arc mirror Arwen's.

Steve couldn’t believe his eyes when he found Jorinda and Loki in the library. The demigod and the witch were both poring over several thick tomes, and their playful banter was not what he had expected.

“Steve!” Loki greeted him with a small smile. “How was the hunting trip?”

The smile, the tone of the voice, and the fact that Loki addressed him by his given name jarred him. “It was okay?” he answered lamely.

Jory raised her eyebrows. “Adam said he’d take you through the River of Songs,” she stated, her tone slightly disapproving. “I’m quite sure that alone merits more than just ‘okay.’”

Steve ducked his head, flushing slightly. “You’re right,” he admitted. “It was amazing. Adam took us on a raft and we followed the river until we reached the Emerald Bay.” He looked at her fondly. “I could just make out the Arboreal Islands floating on the horizon.”

“A chain of floating islands?” Loki asked. “That’s where we will be going for this visit, yes?”

Steve nodded with a small grin. He decided that if Jory could stand to be around Loki then he would, too. He nodded at the spread of books and scrolls spread on the long table. “What are you guys doing?” he asked.

“She is teaching me witchcraft,” Loki said with a smile.

“And he is teaching me some of his magic,” Jory added. She wrinkled her nose, as she added, “Most of it is unusable by me, but I think my sister and Hanalee should find it interesting.”

“Who is Hanalee?” both men asked her.

“My sister in-law,” she answered with a small shrug. “The Mother of the Witches.”

“The witch/wizard exemplar,” Loki added drolly.

“Be nice,” she chided him, pinching his arm.

Steve raised an eyebrow. If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn there was this undercurrent of flirtation between the witch and the demigod. He quelled the irrational twinge of jealousy that started to rein its ugly head within him. Jory was just being friendly, fond looks notwithstanding.

That’s what he kept telling himself as he exited the library. 

He did not see the slightly puzzled look on Jory’s face at his abrupt exit, nor the concern that flitted across Loki’s features when he saw the look on the witch’s face.

“He may be tired,” he said reassuringly, laying a hand on her smooth one.

Jorinda threw him a quick smile before glancing at the water clock on the mantelpiece. “Oh dear,” she exclaimed with a slight dismay. “We have missed tea!”

“Well that just won’t do,” Loki drawled.

The witch playfully batted at his arm before appropriating it, herding him towards the door. “You have mean streak, Loki,” she commented. 

“Only to those deserving of it, dear lady.”

“I believe you.”

“At your own peril, then. You do realise I am called the Lie-Smith for a reason, yes?”

“Even to those who have offered you the hospitality of their home and hearth?” she asked him archly.

Loki quieted. The arch response had hit home, unknowingly. He was honest enough with himself that he bore the Lord of Shadivari no quarrel—especially when he realised he had been accorded all his freedom during his stay in the moonlit realm. The thought of breaking the generous hospitality, and the thought of earning the censure of the beautiful witch beside him rankled.

“I swear, as the son of Frigga that you and your friends need not fear any treachery from me,” he vowed solemnly.

Jorinda did not reply. Her only response was to clasp his hand gently.

Loki felt a tumble of emotions spinning through his mind. He knew his cheeks may have coloured slightly at the questioning looks some of the nobles had thrown their way. It was already common knowledge that the witch and Rogers are keeping company. Now tongues would be wagging about the Wytchdottir and the shunned Prince of Asgard. He gently broached his observation to the witch.

Jorinda responded with an amused chuckle, tinged with weariness. “Remember what I said before, about us being living weapons?” she asked.

“At the gazebo?” he asked. “Yes, I remember that.”

“It is similar to how marriages are treated,” she stated. “It is all politics, with very little paid to the involved parties’ personal preference. Unless you have enough power to go against the grain.”

"Like Arden and Christabel?” Loki suggested.

“Exactly,” she answered. “Back then, after Khaymin’s death there were talks about Arden and I marrying,” she explained. “There were talks of allying myself with the dwarrows.”

“I had thought that Harald of Blackstone was already paying suit to your blonde telepath.”

Jorinda smiled tightly. “Not Harald,” she corrected him. “Gared, his nephew.”

“The young dwarrow?” Loki sputtered. “Isn’t he considered young by his kind’s measure?”

“It would be like marrying a sixteen year-old,” Jorinda answered with a touch of distaste.

“Norns,” Loki breathed out at the thought.

“Steve is a leader, and a warrior of repute,” she turned towards him. “You are a prince among a race of immortals.” She paused, allowing the statement to sink in. “You can see how an alliance with either one of you is of great interest to the fey.”

“Especially as any children borne of our lineage bypasses the forbiddance that kept the fey away from the other realms of existence,” Loki realized. “And you are already part human.”

“As a rule, we use that to scout for the Dark ones on the Prime plane,” Jorinda stated. “Think about it, our descendants under command of the Dark ones …”

“They can cross over throughout known existence, with no one being the wiser,” Loki realized.

“Tell me the truth,” she requested of him. “Is it inconceivable to imagine ten shadowfey of Arden’s power laying waste to Asgard?”

Loki shuddered. He thought of Asgard. Their weapons would be useless against a shadowfey. The magic wielded by his mother and his daughter Hela would be the only defence they could count on. And Hela rarely answers favourably to Odin.

“That was what happened to Artak,” she brokenly whispered. “It used to be a beautiful realm, home to my ancestors twelve thousand years ago. Lorien the Whampiri Lord and his shadowfey allies laid waste to an area slightly larger than the city of New York in less than two hours. They blighted the land.” She let out a ragged gasp. “They infused the land with their shadowy essence, turning it dark and twisted into a horrid and crazed reflection of its original splendour. It cut down roughly half of our magics.”

Loki drew her into an alcove, letting her sit on one of the chairs. He crouched in front of her, gently massaging her fingers. “You draw power from the elements,” he noted.

“A spellweaver draws from either earth, air, fire or water to fuel her spells. The link to the elements also empowers certain spells affiliated with those elements. Each spellweaver is linked to one element, sometimes two. Rarely will you hear a spellweaver bonded to three.”

“And what are your elements?” he asked. “I used plurals as I’m guessing you are an exemplar.”

Jorinda threw him an amused look before answering, “All four of them. I’m an anomaly, as they say.”

Loki huffed out a small laugh. He rose to his feet, hand out to Jorinda. “Are you feeling better?”

“As much as one could be, I suppose,” she answered, smoothing down the front of her dress after getting to her feet. “Tell me, did Steve seem ... odd to you just now?”

“Perhaps he was surprised you are teaching me the Craft,” Loki answered. Rogers behaviour niggled at the back of his mind. 

Jorinda let out a small hum, her brow furrowed slightly in thought. She caught sight of Arden striding across their path and called out to him. She turned to Loki.

“I need to have a quick word with Arden,” she said. “We’ll continue tomorrow, same time same place.”

Loki nodded, giving her a small bow. The witch let out a small laugh and turned to the shadowfey who stood waiting. He gave Loki a small smile and a lazy wink before turning his attention to the witch. 

Loki turned to trace his steps back to his room, wondering about the lazy wink the Lord of Shadivari had given him.

 

* * *

 

Victor and Clint let out a laugh. Steve felt his face burn as he listened to them. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, wondering if he had made a mistake.

“I’m sorry,” Clint managed to gasp out between guffaws. “Are you actually serious? That Jory and Loki have something going on?”

“They look so damned cosy together,” Steve supplied, wincing at how weak it sounded even to him.

Victor stood up and came to stand in front of him. The taller man placed his hands firmly on Steve’s shoulders and gave him a small shake.

“She’s friendly with everyone,” the feral mutant rumbled in his bass voice. “You know that. And she said she’s teaching him magic, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Vic,” Steve returned pointedly. “We are talking about Loki here.”

“He’s got a point there,” Clint allowed.

“And we’re in a realm where Jory and Arden are not the only two people who can take down Loki if needed,” Victor argued.

Steve let his shoulders slump slightly at Victor’s point. The fair-minded man inside him said to give Loki benefit of the doubt. After all, if the lord of this faerie realm had granted Loki hospitality then he is not going to be the one to break the peace. The Avenger side of him on the other hand, balks at the thought of Loki amassing more magical knowledge. One that could be one day turned against the Avengers. He sighed.

“I guess I should trust Jory with this one,” he agreed grudgingly. 

“You should also trust that she’s not the sort to stray,” Clint pointed out gently.

Steve winced at the comment, but remained silent. He could feel his cheek flushing. 

“We’ve seen the way you two look at each other,” Victor said with a small smile. “It’s cute, really.”

Steve felt his face redden even more. “Really?” he asked, his voice coming out as a squeak. 

“It’s like one of those Merchant-Ivory films,” Clint nodded. “Nat, Cargill and me are just waiting for the two of you to tumble into bed all romantic-like.”

Steve made his way to an armchair and buried his face in his hands. The sound of a door opening and Arden’s voice announced the fey’s arrival. 

“Victor, I hope you are ready to do some serious fucking tonight ...” Arden trailed away, a small chagrined twist on his face when he caught sight of Steve. “But, I suppose we can have tea while waiting for the sexual tension to mount,” he rallied with aplomb.

Steve snickered at the fey’s quick mind, in spite of himself. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, waving away the offered refreshments. “I need to see Jory,” he added, standing up.

Arden hummed to himself, absently placing a small kiss on Victor’s cheek when the bigger man pulled him on his lap. The fey perched catlike on the man’s lap while he sent Steve an assessing look. 

“There is a full moon out tonight,” he mentioned airily. “And the weather is nice out, especially near the northern edge of the garden.”

Steve perked up at the not too subtle hint, his face breaking out into a boyish grin. “You don’t say,” he drawled. 

“I didn’t,” Arden quipped. “Just thought you might be interested in a nice leisurely walk.”

“It does sound like a good idea,” Steve agreed at the broad hint. He stood up, nodding to the three of them before leaving. 

“So, about the sexual tension ...” Victor murmured, running his hand along Arden’s thigh.

“Christabel told me to have that nipped in the bud,” Arden explained. “She kept getting vivid mental impressions from Steve throughout the trip she was seriously considering putting him to sleep.”

Victor chuckled. “She did look a little peaked at the end, like she didn’t get enough sleep,” he noted. “Now let’s see what we can do about our particular sexual tension.”

Clint had sidled over to Victor’s other side, putting the other man’s arm around his neck so his front was pressed against Arden’s back. “We missed you, big guy,” he murmured fondly.

“I missed you two,” Victor returned, squeezing Clint’s shoulder affectionately. His fingers then crossed over to Clint’s chest, to lazily rub against the other man’s cloth-covered nipple—eliciting a moan of pleasure from the archer.

Clint had managed to work his right hand behind Victor, and his left wrapped around Arden—resting on the fey’s upper thigh. He worked the left hand to Arden’s groin, palming the fey’s hardening bulge. The fey started grounding his ass in Victor’s lap, with Victor thrusting his hips to deepen the friction. 

Clint moved away from his seat, resting himself on his knees in front of his lovers. He deftly undid Arden’s trousers, throwing them negligently over his shoulder once he managed to take them off. Victor had managed to free his ragingly erect cock from his breeches, the laces hurriedly undone by his claws. Clint smirked at the man’s impatience and helped to ease the tight leggings off of his lover. He hefted Victor’s hips further along the seat, so the meat of his buttocks are slightly hanging along the edge. The semi-reclined posture lets Arden to lay back on Victor’s torso—a decadent chaise. Victor’s thick length rose invitingly between Arden’s spread legs, the fey’s own cock jutting up from the juncture. Clint ran his tongue up the underside of Victor’s cock, continuing his oral ministrations on Arden’s cock. He alternated between the two, wetting his fingers and teasing both of his lovers’ entrance as he took them into his mouth. 

Once Arden was suitable stretched, he guided Victor’s hard cock into the fey, smiling as he heard the gasp of pleasure from Victor as he was slowly sheathed in their dark-haired lover’s body. Arden accompanying moan lets them know how much he enjoyed being filled. Once Victor is seated balls-deep inside the fey, and the fey had gotten used to the stretch of the feral’s thick girth Clint prepped Victor to take him. Victor’s only response was a ragged “Yes” with the s drawn out in a blissful hiss.

Clint’s cock throbbed at the sound Victor made. He placed the head of his cock at Victor’s entrance, gently pushing in until he was buried right to the hilt. Victor felt so hot and deliciously tight around him. He paused, enjoying the heated clasp of his lover around his length, taking the opportunity to lavish Arden’s lean torso with hungry licks and nips while he stroke the throbbing erection belonging to the fey—timing his strokes with Arden’s movement along Victor’s girth buried inside him. 

Once he was certain that he would not peak too quickly, Clint started his own languid movement. His hips moved wickedly in fast shallow thrusts, alternating with drawing out until only the head was teasing Victor’s entrance and sliding back in slowly. He rolled his hips, having learned that it drove the other man wild when the move grazed his prostate. It did not disappoint; Victor’s shuddered response sent his buried length inside Arden even deeper making the fey cry out in pleasure. 

“More!” he demanded.

Victor gave it to him, fucking out Arden’s release as spurts after spurts of semen bathed Arden’s torso and Clint’s as well. The three of them paused, letting Arden climb off of Victor to rest alongside him on the sofa.

“My turn,” Clint announced. 

He extricated himself slowly, the movement of the ridged flange of his cockhead drawing deep guttural moans of pleasure out of Victor. He straddled Victor’s massive thighs, lowering himself until his entrance was breached by the feral’s thick girth. There was a slight burn—Victor was thicker around compared to Arden.

Victor smiled, wrapping his as around Clint and drawing him close. The two men kissed, passionate and hungry while Victor’s hips slowly moved in shallow stabs nudging Clint’s prostate. Clint’s mewls of pleasure devoured by Victor’s kisses, alternating with an occasional lingering kisses with Arden.

“I’m gonna cum, Vic!” Clint cried. He could feel the tell-tale tingling along his spine and he gasped when Victor let go of his embrace but catching his arms. 

The arched position opened him up to Arden who bent forward and engulfed Clint’s hard length in his mouth. The sensation of being pleasured both by Arden’s hot mouth and Victor’s throbbing thickness sent him over the edge and he spilt himself in the fey’s mouth. Victor’s grunt and shuddering hips signalled his own release. Clint could feel his seed bathing his inner walls. He yelped when Victor drew him back close, Victor’s still-hard cock rubbing against his insides in delicious friction.

He rested his forehead against Victor’s. His right arm reached out for Arden and drew the fey close.

“That was different,” he noted.

Victor’s reply was a smug chuckle. Arden hummed non-commitantly at his observation. 

A small growl from Victor made Clint draw back. “What the fuck was that?”

“Our giant cat is feeling a bit peckish, I believe,” Arden teased, poking at Victor’s side. He stood up and pulled the cord that will call one of his many attendants. “I’ll ring for dinner to be brought up.”

“Good idea,” Clint agreed. “I think I might need help walking if we’re going to the banquet hall.”

“I could teleport us there,” Arden pointed out.

“You could do that,” Clint agreed, as he burrowed into Victor’s neck. “But when else are we going to get some free time to spend together, just the three of us?”

Arden grinned, teleporting them to the large bed. Clint moaned as the movement made Victor’s slowly deflating cock regained its previous tumescence. The other man was flat on his back and he expertly maneuvered Clint so he is now splayed on top of Victor with his back lying on Victor’s torso. His cock went back to full mast as the movement sent sparks of pleasure along his spine. 

Victor had him in a half-nelson with one arm, lovingly fucking Clint while his other hand caressed the archer’s flanks. Arden watched them, the feys’s dark eyes burning with desire and lust as he watched his two lovers take their pleasure. Victor paused, raising his head to growl “Fuck me!” urgently.

Arden moved forward, his hard length throbbing at the nearness of the two men. He reached down and teased Victor’s entrance, still pliant from Clint’s earlier attention. He laid the head of his cock and pushed in with one stroke. 

Victor trembled, his entrance clenching around the fey’s length. His trembles in return elicited a cry from Clint. Arden bent his flexible lean frame and took three inches of Clint’s length in his mouth as his hips pistoned in and out.

The pleasure of fucking while being fucked was to much for Victor. Arden was hitting all the right spots. Clint was milking him as he slammed up into the man’s tight heat. He let out a roar as he came, feeling himself loose several volleys inside the blonde archer. The archer came no too long after, feeding Arden a second time with his seed. Arden came last, seating himself inside Victor as his pulsing member coated Victor’s inner passage with his release.

A hesitant knock sounded. “My Lord?” came haltingly behind the door.

Arden chuckled, slowly pulling out from Victor. He bent down and gave his two lovers a kiss each before spinning out shadows to cover them like a blanket. He conjured a pair of loose trousers—tented by his unflagging erection—out of the same shadow-stuff and stalked to the door. 

He opened it and several young shadowfeys were herding four large trolleys laden with food and drink inside the royal suite.

After having laid out the service on the table, Arden teleported back onto the bed, naked and still hard.

“Damn,” Clint swore. “Twice in a row not enough for you?”

“What can I say? I’m hungry.”

Clint laughed at the answer, drawing Arden into a hug. Victor fitted himself to their bodies, laying one arm to rest around them.

“Food might get cold,” the bigger man noted.

“Arden can always browbeat someone into heating it up,” Clint responded, stealing a kiss on the fey’s forehead. 

There was a long moment of silence. The three just lay on the bed, enjoying the closeness with their lovers. The silence was broken by an inquisitive Clint.

“How serious do you think it is?” he asked Arden, nudging him with his chin.

Arden looked up, his dark eyes reverting to and fro between Clint and Victor. “What are you referring to?”

“Jory and Steve,” Clint answered. 

Arden flopped onto his back. He huffed out a small chuckle before answering. “I can’t speak for her, but I can see it as something long-term.”

A wedding in the Feywilds did not sound too bad, Clint decided.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve learned something new. Loki made friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get slightly darker.
> 
> As always, comments, kudos and whatnots are welcome.

 

Christabel Annabeth Violetta Adaré is not a woman who likes the unknown. She is the Mentalist Prime, owning the title due to her skills and experience with her prodigious mental powers. There are few minds that could hold her at bay. Being able to know everything about everyone had been the cornerstone of her existence, and if pressed will admit to subtly manipulating events and people to her favoured outcome.

Others may frown on her methods. However, Adam, Jorinda and Arden have all admitted that there are times when a ruler has to be both ruthless and cunning. As respective rulers—in Adam’s and Jorinda’s case, the heirs apparent—of their own people, their approbation means much to her. Especially when there are not many willing to own to friendships with telepaths.

Ironically, the inner workings of matters of the heart eludes the beautiful blonde. She herself had already decided earlier in her life that romance would not be in the cards for her. It was then a surprise to experience such fervent adoration from her then-suitor Harald.

At first, she had balked at his overtures. Wanting to preserve her independence she had initially brushed him off. Her now-legendary icy demeanour would not deter the dwarrow however. Like Atasha Alishanka—the earth goddess that the dwarves venerate—he was constant in his devotion. After months of avoiding his attention she decided that constancy and resilience are virtues that have much to recommend them. It would never be the roiling passion that Arden had shared with Khaymin. Theirs would be akin to the warmth of banked embers. Comfortably quiet, but ever-present.

Despite her forays into the Prime Plane—or Earth, as the humans have now called it—she had never managed to completely immerse herself. There was always something about the Prime that rang false to her. The humans she encountered were a sorry, hapless lot and she found herself developing an automatic wall to distance herself. No, she could never be like Jorinda who saw good in everything and everyone. Nor was she like Adam and Arden who luxuriated in exploring all the Prime had to offer.

At times, she recalled the statement one of her instructors had uttered: “Once you are able to see others’ true motivations and darkest corner of their minds, you will wonder how did we ever survive to this day.”

To this day, she could never be certain if it was a statement of fact, or one of caution.

There had been people—fey  _and_ human alike—who had surprised her. Arden with his passionate nature—always striving to safeguard his people. Adam’s unwavering courage throughout countless battles. The twins Adria and Reuben, with their resilience and dedication.

Now, there are these Avengers.

The redhead Natasha, with her formidable control of her faculties. The redeemed Victor, working to correct what was wrong. And Steven ...

Christabel had been wary when she saw the developing romance between the witch and the soldier. There are too many things that could go wrong with the bond that was developing—attachment being the most glaringly obvious.

It galls her soul to admit it, but she had thought that Steven was overreaching. And that Jorinda may be led astray down to her own ruination. She had voiced her concern to Adam and Arden.

_It was the night of the banquet. Her gown had fit perfectly, the modiste having taken extra care with the assignment. She glanced at Arden as her maid helped her with her coiffure._

_“The soldier is playing court to Jorinda,” she had remarked. “He is beneath her.”_

_“He’s battled aliens and gods, and triumphed,” Adam countered, his words bitten out. Although they managed to get along, Adam is an uneasy ally at best. “Your argument is void.”_

_Arden did not reply. His shadow, casted by the flickering light from the fireplace, surged and roiled behind him—a small sign that he was not pleased at her remark._

_Christabel did not bother sending out a teasing probe to see his stance on this. Elementars carry the genetic memories of their forebears; reading their minds takes too long as she would need to sift through layers upon layers of memories and thoughts—both ego and id. And Arden had been trained to keep his surface thoughts in check, where a cursory scan would have revealed nothing._

_She shrugged dismissively. “He had friends helping out,” she retorted with a sniff._

_“And having friends somehow demeans him?” Arden asked._

_“He’s_ human, _” she pointed out with a hiss._

_“And Jory is partly one, as well,” Adam countered with a sigh._

_“As are we all,” Arden agreed. “As are you._ Especially _you.”_

_Christabel glared at him. She could not refute his point; especially when she falls short on the racial purity scale. Her grandfather had been a talented human psychic who managed to pierce the forbiddance hiding the Feywilds on his own. Jorinda’s human ancestor on the other hand had been from before the Great War centuries ago._

_“Then you are allowing this?” she asked._

_“I allow a fellow Royal her privilege and right to act as she sees fit, as long as the hospitality and safety of Shadivari is kept sacrosanct,” Arden stated. “Besides, she is answerable to the Mother and the Crone.”_

_Christabel sniffed, her disdain obvious. “They won’t say anything to counter it, especially since Hanalee is her kinswoman by marriage!”_

_“Exactly,” Arden said, standing up. His shadow flowed across the walls and ceiling like a spread of phantasmal ink. “Her kin. Her people. Let them have their say. As a friend and ally, we keep guard to make sure she stays the course but we do not intrude.”_

_“You have read his mind, surely,” Adam chimed in. “Is he not as what he appears?”_

_Christabel thought back to the light-hearted moment back at the mansion. She had needled Steven on purpose—to pass through the initial barrier through a person’s mind. She had known he had been around psychics, and being an intelligent and highly sentient man such as he would recognise when a telepathic intrusion happens. The moment in the kitchen where she had asked leading questions had opened him up to her ..._

_Adria had reported before that with Steven Rogers, what you see is what you get. After a quick scan, she did not know whether she should feel elated, or disappointed that Steven Rogers is every bit the quintessential “guy-next-door” to borrow one of the slangs from the Prime._

_“I suppose Jorinda knows how to handle herself,” she said finally. She glanced at the mirror, admiring the elaborate braiding that brought out the pale golden luster in her hair. She dismissed her maid and stood up to face Adam and Arden. “I will not intrude,” she promised. “My friends are not exactly thick on the ground as it were.”_

_“Whatever gave you_ that  _idea?” Adam said with a dark chuckle._

_“Jory knows what is at stake,” Arden reminded them._

She brought herself back to the present, where she was a part of the retinue on their way to the Arboreal Islands. She did not like the unknown, and matters of the heart and mechanics involved eludes her. She sighed, leaning back in her seat. The rocking motion of the carriage rocked her comfortably as she looked out the window.

Opposite her, Harald looked up from the slender volume of poetry from the Prime that Jorinda had gotten for him. Someone named Rumi. “Something the matter?” he asked in his quiet voice. “You have been out of sorts since the hunting trip.”

“Nothing that concerns you, Harald,” she assured him.

“On the contrary,” he disagreed. “Your friends are mine. Anything that concerns them, concerns me as well.” He closed the book and put it aside. “Is it about Steven and Jorinda?”

Christabel smiled in spite of her slight surprise. Dwarrows as a race are a quiet, staid lot but folk forget that they are also a race of artisans, builders and lovers of art, beauty and love. A romantic play between the popular and well-loved Maiden of the Witches and a celebrated hero from the Prime are stuff such epics were made of. On an impulse, she reached out her hands and clasped his.

“I remember that you said that I am like the rarest of diamonds, not easily found nor easily kept,” she began. “What did you mean about the last part?”

“Only referring to our differing lifespan,” he replied solemnly. “Barring accidents, or illness I can still look forward to another three centuries of life. You, on the other hand, will fade with the passing years.” He smiled sadly. “I treasure each moment we share as they are memories I will forever keep to accompany me through those twilight years.”

Christabel looked at him, feeling that wellspring of tenderness inside her bubbling. She did not reply, but tightened her hands around his. He brought her clasped hands to his lips and kissed them softly.

“I do not want either one of them to be hurt,” she admitted in a small voice.

“Jorinda knows her duty,” Harald said firmly. “It does not make her feelings any less valid.”

“It is all so unfair!” she cried out.

Harald hushed her, moving to her side to embrace her in his brawny arms, rocking her. The gentle motions quieted the mentalist.

“In the end, people like us are bound by duty,” he stated simply.

Duty. That word haunted Christabel for the rest of the journey.

 

* * *

 

Loki rode well, Steve could see. The demigod had always carried himself with a certain grace. His form on horseback cut a fine figure as he rode besides Adria. The sultry, raven-haired fey was a natural flirt and she had soon engaged Loki in an amusing, if slightly ribald exchange. Her playful remarks and winsome asides drew peals of laughter from the demigod. Hearing such unabashed joy in Loki’s laughter, Steve could not reconcile this Loki with the driven, dangerous adversary he had often clashed with.

Jory rode next to him, at home on her own horse—an even-tempered chestnut. “Adria has a wicked sense of humour,” she remarked, following his gaze. “You need not worry for her. She could fight anyone to a standstill.”

“Was I that obvious?”

“It is only natural,” she said gently. “He is one of your more determined foe. Only a fool would ignore that kind of history.”

“He seemed different somehow now, compared to the Loki that we know.”

“Perhaps being in a world he was not overshadowed by an illustrious older brother have something to do with it. And being around other practitioners of magic sets him at ease.”

“Perhaps,” Steve agreed grudgingly.

They stopped for the day  near a small stream. They had  made good time, covering approximately thirty miles at a leisurely pace. Adam, as the default quartermaster directed them towards chores of setting up camp. It was to no surprise—having tasted her cooking—that the task of preparing their meal falls to Christabel.

The blonde made a domestic sight as she went through her assignment. Carrots and tomatoes were diced expertly, her nimble hands almost flying across the chopping board. Not twenty minutes later, the stew was on its way to simmering in the large pot hanging from the portable tripod they had brought along for such use.

“Every witch needs her cauldron,” the blonde remarked with some amusement.

“I thought your powers were innate,” Steve commented with some surprise.

“Oh I am nowhere near Jory’s league,” she replied with a short laugh, bending down to give the stew a stir. “Arden, the twins and I took some lessons in magic and spellcasting.  While I do know some useful spells, like  _cure light wounds_ , I am not exactly a prize pupil.”

“I’m sure you’re just being modest,” Steve returned with a smile. “The stew smells delicious, by the way.”

“Could you call the others? The stew should be ready in the next few minutes.”

Steve looked around. Natasha, Adria and Jory were brushing down the horses. Harald, Loki, Cargill and Adam were just about finished setting up the five tents. Arden, Clint and Victor were nowhere to be found.

Christabel must have followed his gaze, as she gave a small sigh and murmured, “Follow the river downstream.” Her nose wrinkling slightly as she added in an acid tone, “Try to make as much noise as possible to give them fair notice.”

“Why?” Steve asked, unthinking.

Christabel arched an eyebrow and gave him a look that spoke volumes.

“Ah, I see,” he replied to the look, walking away. He paused and turned to flash an impish grin at her. “Do you need brain bleach?”

 

She laughed and pointed him towards the stream. “Make sure they wash their hands!” she called out to his retreating figure.

“Whose hands need washing?” Loki asked, coming up to the fire. “Do I even want to know?”

“Ha!” Christabel retorted. “Be careful what you ask for.”

“Caution has never been an advice I heed,” Loki drawled, a small smile on his face.

The blonde fey looked at him, considering and measuring. “No, I don’t suppose you do,” she agreed. She ladled out a healthy portion of stew into a wooden bowl, added two large buns on a plate and handed it to him. “Here you go.”

Loki turned after accepting the food. The others were slowly drifting in. Romanov nodded to him, her face neutral. The sultry Adria trailed behind her. The raven-haired psychic paused as she was passed by, taking a deep whiff from the bowl in his hand.

“Venison,” she noted. “Smells heavenly.” She winked at him as she drew away.

“I’m sure it will taste just as good,” Loki murmured to her back.  _Was it just him, or are these feys flirting with him?_

 

Hoots of raucous laughter drew his attention to the stream. Rogers was in the lead, walking quickly with his face red. His long strides easily ate the ground as he hurriedly distanced himself from the playful heckling from the trio following behind him.

“Come on!” Barton cried out. “It’s not like you haven’t seen my bare ass before!”

Loki felt his lips curl slightly at the crassness of Barton’s words. It seemed to be one of the archer’s favourite pastimes, to scandalise the soldier. He felt a moment of pity for the other man, recalling the teasing he had to endure when he was young from Thor’s friends and various hangers-on.

“You’re going to make him have an aneurysm,” Creed said with a grin.

Arden chuckled, elbowing Barton. “It’s not every day Captain America had to break up a threesome,” he chided the other man, his face straight but eyes mirthful.

Rogers whirled around. “Not that!” he huffed out, his face so red it made Loki worry for him. “I just didn’t expect Clint to bottom!”

The three of them halted. And stared at Rogers. Arden had a small smile on his lips. Barton and Creed wore identical looks of mild surprise.

“And that was the main takeaway from what you saw?” Barton drawled.

“The only one I care to remember,” Rogers shot back. “Oh yes, Victor. Harder!” he mimicked.

Loki’s eyebrows rose. He was glad he was not in mid-chew or he would have choked on his food.

Rogers then glanced at Arden, impishly smiling. “I didn’t realise you’re quite the contortionist, though.”

Loki shook his head at the exchange between the four and turned his attention back to his meal. He was aware that Christabel and Harald had made their way towards him.

“Mind if we join you?” the dwarrow asked in his quiet voice.

“Be my guest,” he replied, nodding to the space next to him.

The two feys sat on the ground, the three of them making a small triangle.

“You are awfully quiet today,” the dwarrow commented.

“Just taking in the surroundings,” Loki admitted. “I see that the moonlight is slowly drawing towards daylight over on the horizon.” He motioned towards the direction they are headed.

“The border of Shadivari and Elysium is about a hundred miles in that direction,” Harald answered. “Some of my kinsmen will be escorting us to the shores of the Emerald Tide.”

“A royal entourage,” Loki murmured with a small smile.

“The Maiden of the Witches, the Lord of Shadivari, the Mentalist Prime, Firstborn of the Clan Chief of the Werebeasts,” Harald counted off with a grin. “With such assemblage, the Dark Ones would not want to miss this opportunity.”

“You’re using yourselves as bait?” Loki asked, aghast.

“To draw out their best fighters,” Christabel pointed out. “They would take extra effort especially where Arden, Jory and Adria were involved.”

“What is so special about those three?”

“Adria is our pet assassin, for lack of better phrasing,” Christabel answered bluntly. “Lorien would give his right arm to have her head on a spike. Not to mention her powers, skills and memories.”

“She is your right hand woman,” Loki commented. “This Lorien can absorb another’s powers?”

“Like one of Joanna’s friend,” Christabel confirmed, referring to Rogue.

“I can understand why Adria and Arden would be a prime target. The former is privy to most, if not all, of your plans and strategies. The latter holds one of the largest faerie domains, one which is closest to the barriers of the forbiddance. Am I correct?” Loki asked.

Harald nodded solemnly. “Just so,” he confirmed. “You could have just as easily landed in Elysium when you resisted the pull of the calling spell. That would have been quite a pickle if you had appeared in the silvarren’s territory.”

“Elves can be somewhat xenophobic,” Christabel explained, in response to Loki’s raised eyebrows.  

He nodded in understanding. “Why is Jorinda so important to them?” he asked. He felt a surge of protectiveness rise within him at the thought of the witch being in harm’s way.

Christabel looked away for a moment. There was a momentary flicker of helplessness in her face but it was gone so quickly Loki felt he may have imagined it. He saw the closed expression mirrored in Harald’s set jaw. She returned her gaze to Loki.

“Jory is teaching you the Craft, correct?” she asked. Loki nodded in answer. The blonde fey continued, “Certain highly experienced practitioners of the Art and the Way can combine their spells to empower their effects.”

“Cooperative spellcasting,” Loki said in edgewise. “The Vanir are quite adept at them.”

Christabel nodded in acknowledgement. “Practitioners of the Craft can go beyond simple empowerment. They call it  _circle casting_ and spells that result are not only empowered. They can last longer, reach farther, harder to resist.”

“I am still at a loss as to how this concerns her,” Loki said, a frown on his face.

“Witches are most powerful in groups, or covens. The covens have to form a trinity, or its multiplier. Hence, the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone are the bearers of the collected powers of their people.”

Loki paled. “If one of them dies the entire race is diminished in power,” he uttered with a gasp as understanding dawned.

“Unless they managed to pass on the power,” Christabel said. “That is one of the reasons why I was at first leery of Steven.”

“How so?” Loki glanced at Harald, hoping the dwarrow could help shed some light on the topic. Harald just shook his head and nodded to Christabel.

The blonde blushed slightly, looking for all the worlds as if she wished she was somewhere else. “If Jory had conceived, while she was still the Maiden, the power would be passed on to the child if it is a daughter.”

“That was what happened to her,” Harald murmured. “Her bloodline is one that is purer than the others, her power one of the strongest. She casted her first spell when she was five and it was not even a cantrip.”

“She levitated the entire furniture in the house,” Christabel said with a small smile.

Loki laughed. He could just imagine a cherubic five year-old Jorinda holding furniture aloft with her spell.

“Her mother did not realise she had conceived, you see. Rowena married late, marrying Jory’s father after his first wife had passed away,” she paused. “She died after giving birth to Jory.”

Loki nodded consideringly. “You were leery of Rogers because you were concerned he might, ah,  _ruin_ your friend.”

“Until I got to know him better, of course,” the blonde fey retorted with a sniff. “He intrigues you.”

“Some,” he allowed, shrugging. “I find it interesting that a man built for war has the soul of an artist.”

“You have never met a dwarrow then,” Harald chortled.

Loki smiled. He decided that he likes these two. And the witch, of course.

* * *

 

Steve jolted awake. Outside the tent, the cicadas continued unabated. He sensed that there was no danger but there was this feeling that something had awoken him. Next to him, Adam slumbered peacefully. Steve focused on the world outside his tent, focusing his senses with the technique Natasha had taught him before.

The cool night air brought the faint smell of jasmine. None of the women in the group wore that scent. Cargill eschews scents. Natasha, when wearing one, prefers headier scents like rose absolut. Christabel from the few times he had gotten up close seem to favour lavender or citrus. Adria favours musk undertones. Jory, of course is recognisable by lily-of-the-valley. Jasmine do not grow in the wilds of Shadivari.

Nor are they indigenous to this realm.

Steve silently crept towards the door of the tent and peered through the opening.

The full moon dominated the horizon, its silvery light bathing the land. Beyond the horizon, where the borders of Elysium is situated, the Prussian blue sweep of star-riddled sky melded with Shadivari’s eternal twilight.

A flicker of movement from the right, close to the stream, caught his attention. It was a woman of middling age sitting near the bank of the stream.

Steve wanted to call out to her but felt something stilling his voice. The peace of the night would not be broken by him hailing a stranger. He crept out. His bare feet tingled slightly in the cool air.

He forgo his boots and walked barefooted to the woman, not bothering to mask his footfalls. He took her in as he approached. She was attired in a simple cream-coloured country dress, cut in the empire style usually worn by women in this realm. She wore no jewellery nor any other adornments, her bare grass-stained feet peeked from the hem of her dress.

She turned as he neared, looking up at him with wise grey eyes from a face that still bore traces of what must have been a luminous beauty in youth. Steven found himself thinking that Jory would age just as graciously as this mysterious woman.

As if his thought had conjured it, the woman smiled at him. It was a smile a mother gives to her children, the fond ones bestowed from a wife upon her husband. It was a smile filled with love, comfort and life. Of promises vowed and protection.

“Good evening, Steve,” she said. Her voice evoked thoughts of home and warmth. “I apologise for waking you.”

“How did--?” he faltered slightly. “Who are you?”

“Who I am is of no importance,” she answered simply. “I will have words with you, young man.”

Steve raised his eyebrow.

“No harm will come to you, nor will anything come to disturb the slumber of your friends tonight,” she promised.

“I’m listening,” Steve answered, sitting himself down in front of her. He did not know how or why but instinctively he trusted her.

She reached out her left hand and rested her palm in his chest. Steve held himself still as a gentle comforting warmth chased away the slight chill of the night.

“Such a steady heartbeat,” the woman murmured. “Strong and true.”

She withdrew her hand and reached out with both towards his. She turned his left palm up, tracing the lines. A sad look crossed her face as she looked up to him.

“You have been lonely,” she stated. “Surrounded by such magnificent friends and still you are lonely.”

Steve opened his mouth but no sound came out.

“It will not be forever, this loneliness,” she stated. “A great love waits for you.”

Steve let out a small laugh. “Really? Does she have green eyes?”

The woman’s eyes twinkled at him. “Definitely green eyes,” she said teasingly. “Skin like new milk and lips as red as berries.”

Steve smiled. “And when do you see this ‘great love’ happening?”

She leaned back slightly. “Portents of the future may not be wholly accurate,” she cautioned. She held off Steve’s interruption with a finger held up. “But they are never wrong!”

“How is that even possible?” Steve asked.

“You are a man frozen in ice for decades, walking a faerie realm with a demigod,” she pointed out with a small smile. She stroked his cheek, motherly and comforting. “Anything is possible, Steven, as long as one believes and is willing.”

He gave her a look that told her flatly that he was unimpressed. She gave him a moue of her lips and they were at an impasse for a moment before they broke out in a small laugh.

“Alright, I’ll keep an eye out for this great love of mine,” he said ruefully. He shook his head and returned to face her. “But that is not what this talk is all about, is it?”

“Intelligent and wise, as well,” the woman commented. “You are perfect for this task.”

“What task?”

“Where your journey will lead you there will be danger,” she intoned. “The barriers of the forbiddance is eroding. The wards need to be renewed to restore the barriers to keep the Dark Ones away from the other worlds.” She clasped his hands. “Keep the Wytchdottir safe. If she falls, all is lost.”

“What has Jory got to do with the forbiddance?” he asked, clutching at her hands.

“Everything,” the woman said. She released his hands and brushed his cheek gently. “Remember,” she said as her voice grew faint and she faded from view.

“Wait!” Steve cried, grasping at her but closing upon only empty air.

Only the whispered words echoed back.  _Keep her safe ..._

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is suspicious. A new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am letting the Arden/Victor/Clint scene take a backseat in this chapter. This one, and the next focuses on Steve and the Avengers (and Loki, of course).
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are welcome :-)

 

Steve looked around him, making sure he was alone. He had come to the temple to do some thinking. There are things he had learnt that cried out their … _wrongness._

The  journey to the Arboreal Islands had been more or less uneventful. A pack of harpies had been sighted a day after that strange nocturnal visit he had received from the mysterious woman. Adam had taken to flight, summoning a large flight of golden eagles to harry and chase the harpies away.

He did not miss the way Arden and Christabel marshalling their positions around Jory. Arden had taken point, teleporting and levitating fifteen feet above and thirty the left. Christabel had taken the position opposite him on horseback. Nor did he miss the silvery glow of telekinetic energy that surrounded Adria’s hands as she drew close to Jory. It was as if they had practised this manoeuvre so often it was ingrained to them. It was unspoken: Jory had to be protected.

The harpies had been chased away, but returned. This time, they stayed far enough to be deemed harmless but Steve saw the twitch in Adam’s eyes as he scanned the horizons with his keen vision. The werebeast had taken to ranging ahead on air to ensure their safety. Adria had somehow managed to inveigle Clint, Natasha and Victor into joining her on the ground as she scouted ahead. He could tell that the three of them were not fooled by whatever specious reasons Adria may have used but they were canny enough to recognise the necessity for it and thus left it alone.

Steve could feel the difference the moment he entered the faerie domain shared by the dwarrows, silvarren and mentalists. The sky was now a clear blue with faint wisps of cottony clouds. The air was not as heady as it was in Shadivari—where scents of wildflowers seem to permeate the realm. The air here was crisp and fresh, much like a rain-drenched meadow. The light was soft and golden, a stark contrast to Shadivari’s twilight sky and ever-present moon.

Two days after they had crossed into Elysium, a troop of dwarrows met them some distance. It was close to a hundred of the fierce-looking doughty warriors that greeted them as they crossed over into the borders of Elysium. There was an interesting change in Christabel’s demeanour when they were greeted by the dwarrow troops. Her guarded, icy demeanour had thawed and she smiled often, especially when Harald brought her to greet some of the dwarrows. The dwarrows on their part, looked at her as if she was a precious work of art brought to life if the awed expression on their faces were anything to go by. Steve had known by then that the betrothal between the mentalist and the dwarrow lord had been a love match.

That however, did not explain the greeting that Jory had received. Steve was reminded of the occasions when he was accosted by the public during some of his leisurely forays in New York. It was obvious that Jory was held in high regard. He did not miss the fond expressions some of the warriors spared her—like a doting grandparent looking upon his favourite. He also caught an underlying sadness in some of the glances.

It drove him almost to distraction, especially when he caught a similar look of puzzled bewilderment on Loki’s face. The raven-haired demigod had caught his look and raised one eyebrow slightly. He had made a subtle nod with his head, inviting Steve to follow.

When they met some ways away from the camp set up for them Steve squared his shoulders and looked the demigod in the eye.

“You sensed it as well,” Loki started without preamble.

“So do you, I guess,” Steve answered. “There’s something going on here that these feys are not telling us.”

“I agree,” Loki nodded. “It all centres on Jorinda.”

Loki’s tone made Steve look sharply at him. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“Nothing definite,” Loki admitted. “I learned from Christabel and Harald that some of it hinges on her being the Maiden of the Witches.”

“She did make several comments that the feys could not see beyond the title,” Steve noted, remembering some of Jory’s earlier comments.

Loki shook his head. “Alas, Captain,” he said in disagreement. “I suspect this goes beyond simple celebrity worship.”

“But you don’t know anything else.”

“Nothing beyond several suspicions.” He held up a hand to stop Steve’s words. “Which I will not disclose should they turn out to be unfounded. I  _will_ share whatever I have learned.”

Steve looked at him closely. Loki found himself held transfixed by those sky-blue eyes. If eyes are truly windows to the soul then this mortal in front of him had to be one of the best, he decided.

“Why are you helping me?” Steve asked finally. “Not that I am complaining, mind you.”

Loki smiled slightly. “The witch has been kind and gracious to me. And you love her,” he answered with a slight shrug. “You may not believe this, Captain but I do respect you.”

“Huh,” was Steve’s answer to Loki’s explanation. He shook his head. “My name is Steve, Loki. You might as well use it since we’ve known each other well enough by now.”

“Not as friends,” Loki pointed out.

“Don’t you want to be?” Steve asked, feeling slightly whimsical. He could just imagine the look of shock on the other Avengers’ faces if they ever got wind of this conversation.

“You are an interesting man, Steve,” Loki replied finally after a long searching look at Steve. “You would offer friendship to one of your long-time foes.”

“Beating each other up got old,” Steve shrugged. “Maybe we want to sit down for tea and talk it out like rational adults.” He threw a cheeky sidelong glance at Loki. “You  _are_ an adult by Asgardian standards, aren’t you?”

Loki laughed at the cheeky question.  _“Touché,”_ he replied with a wide smile. “I feel that we should return now. They would have missed us by now.”

The two of them returned to the camp, smiles of comradeship on their faces. He rolled his eyes at Natasha’s raised eyebrow. He joined her and Adria. He started to notice that Adam, Arden, Christabel, Adria and Harald had started to join their individual groupings—as if trying mitigate some unforeseen calamity. Adria had looked sharply at him when he made that conclusion.

_You are smarter than you look,_ he heard her voice inside his head.

_And you’re nosy,_ he replied waspishly.

_You cannot begrudge me wanting to ensure the safety of my charges, Captain,_ she replied before the sense of her mental presence disappeared.

That had been five days ago. He started noticing other things about the other feys.

Christabel had shed her aloofness but there was now an undercurrent of sorrow in her expression. She would sometimes stare of into space or become distracted during the few conversations he had with her. Checking with Loki and Natasha, they have noted the change in the mentalist’s behaviour as well. Steve occasionally caught her looking at Jory, a mildly tortured expression her face.

Adria and Adam, two of the more sociable feys—not counting Arden—slowly became less voluble. Adria seemed to be watching them like a hawk, especially Jory. Adam spent less time on horseback and more on his long-ranging flights, ostensibly as a scout but Steve felt as if the werebeast was trying to distance himself from everyone.

Jory was as warm and friendly as ever but there were times when she, much like Christabel would become distant or distracted.

The most obvious change had been Arden’s. Literally. The changes had been minute at first but on the fifth day it started to become obvious. His olive skin had turned pale, almost chalk-white. His eyes were now wholly black, the whites completely covered by black swirls of shadow like roiling thunderheads. Even his mannerisms had turned almost grim.

Victor and Clint had been taken aback when the full effect of Arden’s metamorphosis resulted. The fey had remained close-mouthed about the reason, citing only that it was one of his alternate forms. Steve could tell that Victor and Clint did not buy it.

 

Actually, none of them did.

 

They had arrived on the Arboreal Islands yesterday. There was much of the similar repeat of the mixture of awed looks coupled with sadness thrown towards Jory surreptitiously. He had seen Loki’s glance at him to know that the demigod had noticed it as well. The direct gaze from Adria and Christabel when he had first noted the interplay between Jory and her sister in-law Hanalee—the Mother of the Witches—informed him that they have noticed his observations.

It had started him thinking that he may be silenced ruthlessly but he discarded it for the paranoia it was.

Hanalee was a spellweaver in her early forties. She had been warm in welcoming them to her home, a large rambling ranch-like structure. When she was introduced to Steve, she had spared him a look bordering on pity.

That look was the final straw. He decided he needed to get away from the undercurrent of secrecy and sadness.

He had made sure the temple was empty before entering. It was a temple to the moon goddess Selene. Steve had smiled at that. The interior was laid out much like a Christian chapel. Instead of a crucifix however, the nave was dominated by a sculpture of five feminine figures. Even from his seat on the benches, he could tell that a laborious amount of detail had gone into the sculpture.

 

The first sculpture from the left was of a girl in late adolescence, dressed in a short chiton-like garment that displayed her long coltish legs. The second was a woman who was more mature but still retained the bloom of youth. Her clothing was more sedate, and the girlish awkwardness was replaced by the elegant mien of a woman confident in herself. Third statue was a woman in the fullness of motherhood, of life enjoyed and lived well. An old grandmotherly figure was the fourth statue, a gentle kindly smile on her face as her wise eyes looked on before her. The fifth as neither young nor old, her decidedly feminine figure was veiled. Steve realised that the sculptures represented the phases of the moon itself; new, waxing, full, waning and dark.

He felt a faint sense of déjà vu when he studied the third statue. Its face was the spitting image of the woman who had visited him.

_Keep her safe_ , the whispered words echoed in his mind. Keep her safe from what? Herself?

He remembered the story Hank had once related to them of his friend Jean Grey. How she had gained an almost-immeasurable power as the host for the Phoenix Force. How the power had drove her insane.

Steve had only met the beautiful redhead once when they allied themselves with the X-Men when little Luna—Pietro and Crystal’s daughter—was abducted. She had strike him as a gentle soul much like Jory, and with the same reserves of hidden strengths he suspected.

Now, he had been visited by a fey goddess—who else could she be?—and charged with maintaining the safety of a witch with whom he had fallen in love. His fey hosts were harbouring some tragic secret they would not tell. His new ally in this venture in discovering the secret is one of his former enemies. He wanted to punch the walls of the temple at the sheer frustration of it all.

He calmed himself down with one of the meditation techniques Mantis had once taught him. Once he felt the white heat of frustration raging within him recede he walked towards the entrance. He almost collided with the woman on her way about to enter the temple.

“Oh!” she let out a cry of surprise. “My apologies. I did not see you.”

Steve gave a small smile and turned aside to let her pass. “It’s my fault, really,” he countered. “I should’ve been looking where I was going.”

She grinned widely at his words. “I shall pretend you were struck senseless by my ravishing beauty then,” she replied.

Steve returned her grin. She was quick with her quips, this one. “I’m Steve,” he introduced himself.

“Part of Arden’s entourage,” she nodded in acknowledgement. “Everyone is all in a tizzy because of off-worlders accompanying the Shadow Lord on his visit.”

“You’ve heard about us then?”

She giggled. “How could I not?” she replied. “You are all that she writes about: the mighty Avengers, Earth’s greatest heroes.”

“She who?”

“My sister of course.”

He looked at her blankly. “Jory?” he guessed after taking a moment of noting her fair skin and brown hair.

 She nodded. “If you could wait for me, perhaps we could take a turn around town?”

 

“Why not?” he said with a shrug. He didn’t have any plans. Jory and the other feys were ensconced in a meeting with Hanalee and the Crone of the Witches.

He didn’t feel like joining the others, anyway.

“It will only take a moment,” she said.

She sidestepped around him and entered the temple. Steve left her to her devotionals, looking out from the top of the temple steps.

The Arboreal Islands floated fifty feet above sea level. Access was made possible by a series of pulleys and large platforms serving as elevators. Made up of four islands—Altar, Ceredion, Orulan and the largest, Romea where they were hosted by Hanalee. The temple sat on a small hill overlooking the broad sea-green expanse of the Emerald Tide. No other landmass could be seen as he looked out over the ocean. Far on the northern horizon, heavy thunderheads gathered, roiling but unmoving.

“That is Artak,” the spellweaver’s voice came at his side, soft and hushed.

“Where your ancestors used to live,” Steve commented. “It must have been hard to leave one’s homeland.”

“I would not know,” she said matter-of-factly. “I was born and raised here.” She stared out at the horizon for another moment before shaking her head and turned to him. “I am Nabila, most call me Bila,” she introduced herself with a smile. “It is almost lunchtime,” she remarked. “Let us have a bite to eat and you can regale me with how you and my sister met.”

They walked down the hill, Bila almost hopping down the broad trail with sure, familiar steps. Steve found that despite his taller build and longer legs he had to jog to keep up with her.

Bila seemed to be cut from a different cloth than her sister. Where Jory was gentle and demure, Bila practically crackled with energy. As they walked in the market square of the town, she peppered almost every step they took with stories or asides about the locals. This is a woman who seemed to have her finger on the pulse of the place. They had a small basket of food packed for a picnic at a spot Bila had picked out for them.

The spot turned out to be under an apple tree—one of several—in the middle of a public garden. Blooms of larkspur, grape hyacinths and roses ran riot throughout the garden. Bila had told him that the garden had been planned as a rambling growth, to evoke as naturalistic a setting as possible. The cool nip in the air told him that winter had surrendered to the arrival of spring. He shared this tidbit with Bila as he unwrapped the wax paper from the sandwiches before placing them on a small wooden plate.

She smiled at his observation. “Time passes differently here compared to the Prime,” she said, taking the offered plate. “It is autumn there if I am mistaken, yes?” Steve nodded. “The weather is of no concern to us here on the Arboreus.”

“How so?”

“We move to warmer climes when the weather gets too much.”

Steve rose an eyebrow at her answer. “Teleportation?”

Bila shook her head. “Not quite, although there is always that option,” she said with a giggle. “The islands float due to the magically amplified iron deposits found in the landmass.”

“Magnetic levitation,” Steve hazarded. “Using the concept of reverse polarity in the earth’s magnetic field.”

“Just so,” Bila confirmed. “I believe Stark would creamed himself if he knew that.”

“You know Tony?”

“He is one of my assignments,” she answered cryptically.

“Assignments?”

“We are each tasked to keep an eye on certain individuals,” she answered. “Individuals who may be taken as threats by the Dark Ones.”

“Besides Tony, who else?” he followed up, intrigued. “If you are allowed to tell, that is.”

“Let me see,” she contemplated for a while, sitting back on her heels. “Stark, Hank Pym, Jessica Drew, Julia Carpenter, Monica Rambeau, Bruce Banner and Jennifer Walters.”

“Are you the only one with assignments?”

“All of us have at least two,” she answered. “Jory keeps track of Stephen Strange, Illyana Rasputin, William Kaplan and Nico Minoru—the magical types. Christabel and most of the high-ranking mentalists look into most of the psychics such as Emma Frost. Arden, Adria and Adam split themselves among the Asia Pacific region due to their ability to pass as coming from those locales.”

“But Adria has a Portuguese accent,” Steve protested mildly.

Bila laughed. “Affected, I assure you. She speaks fluent Mandarin, Cantonese, Hindi and Malay.” she replied. “She is the Black Widow’s counterpart, for lack of a better description.”

Steve gave a low whistle. Natasha’s skillset and repertoire is a varied and impressive one. To know that someone having similar skillset without the benefit of the Red Room training or their version of the super-soldier serum is a daunting one, to say the least.

“That is impressive,” he said after a brief pause. “Natasha’s not an easy act to follow. I’m guessing Adria is your best fighter?”

“Only because she is the most brutal,” Bila said, with a slight touch of reproof in her voice. “If you go by technique, Adam and Megaline—you’ll meet her later this evening—are the best. Adria and Arden come at close second due to sheer violence—”

“Arden, violent?” Steve asked, askance.

“Don’t let the kingly primness fool you,” Bila cautioned. “Arden can be nasty when he wants to be. He can fight Adam to a standstill without using any of his powers.”

“Where do you rank?” Steve asked with a smile.

“Third, along with Reuben, Chris and Jory,” she said with a shrug. “Chris edges us out because of her fencing skills. Even Adam has trouble sometimes getting through her defences.”

“But your spells make up for that, I believe,” Steve said.

“I’m not a witch,” Bila said. “I’m trained as a warmage. I have some spell-like abilities from being a spellweaver, but I follow the Art, rather than the Craft.”

“So you can’t heal, or levitate?”

“Only the minor curing spells. Most of my spells are more of the  _Boom! Boom! Boom!_ variety,” Bila said with a small chuckle.

“Sounds like Tony,” Steve drawled.

Bila blushed. “Well, I certainly do not mind the comparison,” she said demurely. “He is quite an interesting man, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Steve murmured, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. He sobered slightly, as he took in the surrounding garden.

There were several feys who have spread their own picnic nearby. A dwarrow family was having lunch, the parents sedately nibbling on their food while their children gambolled about. A female fey, her hair bearing the texture of leaves and moss reclined on one of the benches, her arms cradled around her pregnant midsection as her partner—a male fey whose skin glistened like mother-of-pearl—fed her tidbits, occasionally bending down to kiss her forehead.

“She’s a dryad. He is an oceanid,” Bila murmured.

“There are no male dryads,” Steve realized, noting her unspoken hint.

“Dryads are exclusively females,” Bila confirmed. “They mate by taking partners from other races. If the child is a daughter, she would be a full dryad and will remain with her female kin. If it is a male, the child would be given to the father to be raised as one of their own. If that male child, or any of his descendants were to father another dryad the child would be groomed to be the next dryad queen.”

“That sounds like a waiting game,” Steve commented.

“Especially you take into account a dryad’s long life,” Bila agreed. “A dryad’s average lifespan is between eight hundred to a thousand years old.”

 

Steve turned to her. “So the feys with impressive magical abilities are the shorter lived ones, while those near-immortal types have less magical abilities,” he noted.

“Something like that,” she shrugged. “There are finer differentiations but they are neither here nor there.”

“Everything must be balanced,” Steve concluded.

And there was that wistful, sad look again. It flickered across Nabila’s face before it was replaced by a look of steely determination. Her voice, when she next spoke was so soft that if it was not for his heightened senses he would have missed it.

“Always,” was what she had said.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers (and Loki) have had enough of secrets. Christabel tips her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, my dears.  
> The next few installments will slowly answer the questions you may have.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are welcome.

 

Natasha drummed her fingers in a show of impatience on the table. Cargill spared her a glance before returning her attention to the cup of chamomile tea in her hand. The mutant let the aroma of the crushed leaves and flowers wash over her, relaxing the tiredness in her mind. Opposite her, Loki was taking a sip from his own cup of tea. He caught her eye and saluted her with his own cup, a genuine smile of comradeship on his lips.

Cargill returned his smile. His cultured speech reminded her of Hank. Theirs had been an unlikely friendship. She had not expected to be the recipient of his respect when she joined the X-Men. Slowly, but surely—especially after the horrifying adventures she had endured in the alternate dimension where she was married to Scott—she had accepted his friendly offer, starting work on what she vowed would be one of the many steps to her own redemption.

Perhaps the offer from Hank could be repaid forward by extending it to the Asgardian.

The door to the room opened to let in Clint and Victor.

“I can’t find Steve,” Clint said, throwing himself unceremoniously on the armchair next to the couch Loki was seated in. Victor seated himself in front of Clint on the floor. The archer’s hnads automatically massaged the other man’s boulder-like shoulders. He turned to look at the demigod. “Could you try to check if you locate him?”

Loki snorted at Clint. “Steve desired to be alone,” he answered after taking a small sip. “He had taken his leave to explore the town on his own.”

“How did you know this?” Natasha asked him. Her drumming fingers had stilled themselves, following the still, deadly look she had levelled on Loki.

“He passed my room as I was about to explore the grounds,” Loki answered. “He also requested that none of us question him when he returns. He said he wanted to take some space and time to think.”

Clint glanced at Natasha. “I guess if he wants to talk to us about whatever is bothering him he’ll do it,” the archer commented.

“It’s probably the same thing that we’ve noticed anyway,” Cargill put in her two cents as she put her cup aside.

Four pairs of eyes looked at her.

“Oh don’t play coy,” the Amazon-like mutant snarled in impatience. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“In the interest of sparing some confusion perhaps you could give voice to the topic at hand?” Loki suggested. He glance at Natasha. “No one will know of what transpired here,” he assured the redhead.

“How can you be so sure?” Natasha countered. “Not to put too fine a point but these people have enough concentrated power to take you on several times over.”

“If it had been one of my own spells, Ms. Romanov I would be one of the first to agree with your assessment,” Loki nodded at her observation. “This spell had been slipped into one of my pockets. Going from the penmanship I would guess it was courtesy of our blonde mentalist.”

Four pairs of eyebrows rose at that.

“Christabel does seem to be disturbed about something,” Cargill allowed. “That doesn’t make her someone we can trust.”

“She has no reason to do us harm,” Victor pointed out.

“Her allegiance is to the feys first,” Cargill countered.

“The  _Feywilds_ first,” Natasha corrected. “Elysium would come a close second.”

“First and second priorities will normally coincide,” Loki pointed out, an admiring tone in his voice as he glanced at them all.

Victor leaned back, his hand absently patting Clint’s massaging hands. “So where does that leave us?”

“Let us start with the obvious,” Loki suggested.

“Like Arden’s transformation?” Victor asked.

“That’s a good place to start,” Natasha said. “Did he say anything about what that was about?”

Victor and Clint looked at each other. The archer exhaled as he looked at them. “Remember when he told us that shadowfeys don’t have an actual corporeal body?” The other four nodded, Natasha motioning for Clint to continue. “A shadowfey’s natural form is a conduit for the energies from the Plane of Shadows. This extra-dimensional plane powers most of their abilities.”

“I remember that,” Natasha said, nodding. “From the way he described it, they create substance from emptiness, dark from light.”

 

“It doesn’t answer the reason for the change,” Cargill said.

“I believe I may be able to answer that,” Loki replied. He turned to sweep his eyes across the four of them. “Jorinda has explained it to me. The more of his natural form Arden takes on, the easier it would be to re-power the bindings that holds the forbiddance in place. The Shadowplane exists in places between the magical weave that threads itself throughout the universe …”

“Basically plugging the little holes in the forbiddance,” Victor mused.

Loki laughed slightly at the mutant’s sentence. “That would be one way of describing it.”

Natasha had a troubled look on her face. “Loki,” she said suddenly. “Did Jory explain how the forbiddance was first casted?”

The Asgardian shook his head. “It was one of the few things she kept from me,” he said. “The mechanics were easy enough to reason out, however.”

“Let’s start with that,” Natasha said. “We’ll work our way back from there.”

“Very astute. You would have made quite a formidable spellcaster,” Loki complimented. “To the topic then. They need the representatives from the ruling houses: spellweaver, mentalist, dryad and werebeast, silvarren, and elementar. These five embody the heart, mind, body, spirit and soul.”

“Poetic, but it makes sense when you look at Jory, Adam, Chris and Arden,” Cargill noted.

“Adam and the dryad, Chris and Arden is pretty self-explanatory,” Clint agreed. “But where do the witches and the elves come in?”

“The silvarren are one of the few fey races that kept the tradition of high magic—or invocations—alive among the Light Ones,” Loki answered. “Among the Light, they are the only practitioners of the Art, representatives of nobility and grace.”

“Also known as arrogance and elitist snobbery,” Clint drawled. Victor guffawed. Cargill cackled into her teacup.

Natasha exhaled exasperatedly, rolling her eyes skyward. “Ignore them,” she asked Loki. “Continue, please.”

Loki nodded, his eyes mirthful. “Practitioners of the Craft combine both faith and innate abilities,” he paused and met Natasha’s eyes squarely. “When you look at it Jorinda is the magical, feminine counterpart to Steve.”

“I have read his files from the War,” Natasha commented. “There was a British officer by the name of Peggy Carter who was a close ally and confidante. I’ve only met her once during one of my recon missions for the Red Room but I can see certain similarities between the two women.”

“She reminds me of Jean,” Cargill said quietly. “They both have that hidden strength, and that lovable persona.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I was never close to her before she died but Hank always have these stories about her; it made me wish I had gotten to know Jean better.”

“You know someone was special when even Logan volunteered to be a knight in shining armour,” Victor agreed, a fond smile on his face.

Clint patted his shoulder and laid a kiss on his head. “You are  _my_ knight in shining armour,” he said. There was an awkward pause as Victor blushed slightly.

 

Loki cleared his throat and continued, “They also need the cooperation from denizens of the three planes: higher, material and lower."

“Material plane?” Natasha asked. “Are you sure?”

“Jorinda was quite exact in her terms,” Loki confirmed. He noticed the look the other four exchanged. “What? Is there something I should know?”

“The material plane is another name for our native dimension,” Natasha answered. “Some of them call it the prime plane.”

“What would be the higher and lower planes be then?” Victor asked. “Heaven and Hell?”

“It would not be out of the question,” Loki pointed out. “I _am_ from Asgard, after all.”

“That would make it one of the higher planes, then,” Clint noted. “Nilfheim and Svartarlheim would be the lower planes.”

“Along with the Otherplace,” Cargill added. “Which is gone since Illyana absorbed it into herself.”

“Do you think they are trying to use us for the ritual?” Victor asked aloud suddenly. “Do you think this would be the reason for all this shiftiness?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Natasha answered, trying to puzzle all the clues and hints but not making much headway. “Loki? Any thoughts?”

Loki shook his head. “Alas, no,” he answered. “I do sense however, that it is all centered on Jorinda.”

“Anyone noticed how they seem to go out of their way to keep her protected?” Clint asked the room in general.

“The harpy incident,” Cargill said.

“And how they always made sure to keep one of them in our group like they wanted to keep track of what we’re discussing,” Victor supplied.

“Which Chris is not a party to,” Natasha noted thoughtlfully.

“It would seem our mentalist is acting a lone hand,” Loki murmured.

“Make that two separate hands,” Clint piped in. “I’m guessing Harald would jump off a cliff if Chris asked him to.”

 

“The dwarves do seem to worship her,” Loki noted. “And they seem to dote on Jory.”

“If I were the Pollyanna sort I would chalk it up to her lovable personality,” Natasha agreed. “But Loki seemed to be on to something.”

“So what is the plan?” Cargill asked the redhead.

“Loki and I will stay close to Steve and Jory,” she stated.

Loki nodded his agreement. “If I could get her to show more of the Craft, I could perhaps puzzle out the reverse-concept of the forbiddance.”

Natasha nodded. “Do that,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye out on Steve.”

“I’ll keep close to Arden,” Victor said.

“Like that would be such a chore,” Cargill replied drolly. Victor winked at her.

 

“I think I’ll snoop around,” Clint offered. “Or source out some intel.”

“Be careful,” Loki cautioned. “Arden would not take kindly on discovering you have been turned into a carrot.”

 

“Actually…,” Clint began with a wide grin.

“ _Do not finish that sentence!”_ Loki snapped with a scowl, blanching at Clint’s filthy insinuation.

“I’ll do the whole tourist thing with the dwarves,” Cargill added quickly. She rolled her eyes at Clint.

“Yep,” the archer said, still grinning. “Work that whole big, black and beautiful angle.”

“Is this the part where I slap him while citing some feminist rant?” Cargill asked Natasha.

“You can,” Natasha said with a smile at Clint. “I was almost afraid being gay took away that dickish frat-boy behaviour away, Barton,” she commented as she stood up and walked over to him. “Nice to see some things just won’t change.”

“On that note, I believe the meeting is adjourned?” Loki asked delicately to Natasha’s retreating back as the redhead walked to the door.

“For now,” Natasha said. “Why don’t we meet later in my room after dinner tomorrow and go through what we have learned?”

Their party broke apart at her suggestion. Cargill went in search of the dwarves, her interest genuine in learning about their crafts. If asking certain questions coincided in learning about the mysterious agitation plaguing these feys more power to her. Victor and Clint split ways, both former espionage operatives taking themselves to different parts to do their own investigations.

Loki had taken to the meandering path surrounding the large ranch belonging to the Mother of the Witches.

_Good,_ came Christabel’s voice in his mind.  _You have made good use of the spell I gave you._

_How could you tell?_

_I paid close attention to your brain patterns when you casted the spell,_ was her answer. _I also made sure no one else detected it._

_My thanks. Was there a particular reason for such clandestine strategies?_

_Oh the irony behind that question,_ was the bitter-tinged answer. _I pride myself on knowing everything about everyone. There are times when I wished I could remain ignorant about certain things_ .

_Like what?_ Loki could feel her recoiling at the thunderous echo in his mental voice.  _Have done with your games, telepath. I demand answers. A scion of Asgard is not your pawn!_

_I_ cannot  _tell you!_ was her frustrated reply.  _Do you_ understand _?_

Surprisingly, he did. The mentalist was under a powerful geas that prevented her from disclosing certain truths. His admiration at the telepath’s canny intelligence permeated his mental link.

_Oh stop it_ , came her embarrassed reply.  _You would’ve come upon the same clues yourself._

_Ah, but I am a god_ , was his irrepressible reply.  _You are a mere mortal fey._

The lance of pain that skated through his mind quickly made the comment worth it.  _Ouch. That touched a nerve._

_I could touch your nerves with something else,_ she promised darkly. She could not hide her amusement at his retort, however.

He detected the faint sounds of someone followinng a few ways behind him, but did not show any outward signs of recognition of the fact. It went on intermittently; occasional steps that came and went. A quick detection spell casted surreptitiously did not turn up anything.

_There is someone tailing me._

_An invisible stalker_ . A pause.  _And not summoned by anyone from the Arboreus._

_Dark deeds, dark designs,_ Loki thought out.  _Your enemies seemed to have found a way in._

_Let me worry about that,_ she replied.  _You had better keep yourself alive._

_Why is that important?_

She pointedly did not answer him in any way.

_Ah, another one of those things you cannot tell me._

_Smart god,_ was her sardonic reply.  _I will be merging my sight with yours._

_I could use my mage-sight to see their auras,_ Loki pointed out.

_Not these ones. Their auras are masked._

_Do it,_ Loki said, relaxing his mind for Christabel to merge her senses with his own.

There was a tingling sensation building up behind his eyelids. A feathery sensation floated gently across his naked eye before his focus sharpened into the sight before him. It was a kaleidoscope of scenes from across the islands, and even beyond. There are scenes from the throne room in the Argent palace from distant Shadivari. The golden plains of Elysium bending with the stiff breeze. The floating chain of the Arboreus held aloft. The pristine golden beaches of far-off Zamar that slowly turned to grass steppes and the jungles of the dryads.

_What is this?_ he asked.

_All that my people see, linked and filtered through my mind,_ came the reply.  _I am their nexus. What they know, I know. And vice versa._

_Noted._ Loki acknowledged. _Is this hive-mind something that you should be unable to tell me?_

_Mentalists affairs are my own to disclose as I see fit_.

  _Ah_ , came Loki’s reply at the very obvious hint behind her statement.

_Now focus on the areas surrounding you._

 Loki did as was requested and he could see wavering lines of invisible energy shaped in several humanoid figures. He counted five of them. The five invisible stalkers seemed to know that they have been detected, surrounding him quickly. 

_They can only be destroyed on the Elemental Plane of Air,_ came Christabel’s voice. _However, if damaged sufficiently they will teleport away to their home plane._ Within his mind, he could feel Christabel rifling through the catalogue of spells he owned. _Force bolts?_ came the question. _Generates unseen, tangible force attacks?_

_Yes,_ Loki answered. _Incorporeal creatures, aren’t they? Half odds of hitting them with an energy attack._

_Your eldritch blasts_ should  _also work. However, the good news is that they are not incorporeal, just naturally invisible. Luckily you also know the spell_ faerie fire.  _It’ll illuminate their physical outlines._

_Lucky me,_ Loki replied sarcastically.

_You are a prickly sort, aren’t you?_

_Unprovoked attacks upon my person tend to sour my mood,_ he replied acerbically.  _Shall I blast away then?_

_Go for it,_ came her reply.

Loki flicked one hand at the two closest to him. A bolt of eldritch energy split into two to strike them squarely in their central mass. He sidestepped a heavy gust of wind meant to slam him into the ground, nimbly cartwheeling before outlining the two he had attacked with bright glimmers of lurid pinkish flames.

_Pink?!?_ came Christabel’s mental voice, laced with amusement.

_It’s the most unnatural colour I could think,_ was his reply. He held up his hands, deflecting one gout of wind to send it into another one of them. Another flick of his fingers outlined the other three in purple flames.

“Enough!” he roared aloud. “I am a god, you dull creatures!”

They retaliated by slamming him back with gusts of hurricane-force winds.

Flying through the air from the impact, Loki sent a flare of coruscating blue, red and white bursts of stars in the air. Let the Avengers know about this, even if something happened to him, he decided.

_You are not going to die here,_ came the promise from the mentalist.

Loki hit the ground hard. Thanks to his Asgardian constitution, he did not suffer much from the impact although it left a sizable dent in the ground where he had landed. The five invisible stalkers had arrowed straight to meet him before spitting five-ways to draw out his attacks. He could see their tactics, trying to harry and hit at him while he was engaged with one or two of them.

He gestured swiftly, taking flight as splitting himself into several duplicates while cloaking the original in invisibility. He unleashed several eldritch blasts from one hand towards two of them, an underhanded cast dagger flung towards its head dispatched another. Skewered by one of his daggers it disappeared from sight, taking along the pinkish flames with it.

That left four more. Loki kept one special attack in reserve, letting loose minor volleys of eldritch blasts as he danced between the rapidly diminishing illusory duplicates—destroyed by the hurricane slams from the remaining four stalkers. It would not do to think that he was baiting them. As it were, they were of the thought that the force of his eldritch blasts had been split among his duplicates.

Loki certainly was not about to correct their misconception.

_Why do I get the feeling you have used this tactic before?_ Christabel’s voice asked in his mind.

_How else do I torment a simpleton of an older brother?_ he returned as two more of his illusory duplicates shattered before the stalkers’ concentrated onslaught. They seemed to prefer to concentrate their attacks on each one of his duplicates. Even better. Time to turn their own tactics upon them.

He created another batch of illusory duplicates, this times manifesting all nine of them—including the three remaining ones—into a circle around the stalkers. His attackers hesitated, a fatal mistake that Loki exploited to the full.

He chained his eldritch blast into the ones limned by the purple flames, making sure the remaining one in pinkish flames gets hit last; the chained eldritch blasts loses potency as it arced from the primary target to secondary ones. He wants to keep the one for interrogation. The unspoken wave of agreement coming Christabel’s mental presence was just icing on the cake. The two shrouded in purple flames seemed to implode as they teleported to safety. Loki growled in rage as he spared no quarter in blasting the third purple-limned stalker in the face. He grabbed onto the remaining one limned in tongues of pink flames. He summoned his eldritch energies to coruscate around him as he wrapped his legs and arms around the remaining stalker. The coruscating lines of energy formed bands of eldritch chains that bound the creature to him.

“Teleport away, I dare you!” he hissed. “Let us see if you are that eager to die on your home plane!”

“He can’t!” came a woman’s voice from the ground.

Loki looked down. It was a brown-haired fey, with Steve standing close by. From her colouring, Loki would guess this would be Jorinda’s sister. They fey’s hands glowed with a muted blue light. “You barred his teleportation abilities?” he asked.

“It’s called  _dimensional anchor_ ,” the fey said. “It won’t be teleporting anytime soon.”

_Leave it to me, then,_ came Christabel’s mental voice.

The fey and Steve started in surprise at the mental voice that had echoed in their heads. The female fey sighed out loud.

“Do not tell me anything,” she said, holding her hands up. “Just get that thing away to Christabel.”

“You won’t say anything to Hanalee?” Loki asked.

“Why should I?” the fey answered. “I am not part of the coven. I’m a warmage, not a witch.” She paused as she looked at them. “That means I do not know the answers to those questions you need answered.”

Steve moved to help Loki with the struggling invisible stalker when the demigod alighted on the ground.

“I need to remind you two of some things however,” the fey called out to them.

Steve and Loki turned to regard the warmage. “And that would be?” came Loki’s cool voice.

“There are things bigger at stake here,” she answered. “Christabel and the mentalist have always been a neutral, moderating voice on the Council but she is only one fey despite her powers.”

Loki nodded in understanding. He understood politics all too well. A glance at Steve showed the man had grasped the interplay behind the reality they have somehow found themselves in.

“Whatever it is that you may think, my sister is blameless.”

“What do you mean?” Loki asked.

She shook her head, turning around to leave.

“What do you mean?” Loki shouted again to her retreating back. He made a move towards the retreating figure of the warmage but Steve’s hands on his arms stilled him. 

“Leave her, Loki,” the soldier said gently. “She would have told us more if she could.”

Loki snorted. “I suppose you are right,” he agreed. He looked down at the invisible stalker in its chains. “We need to get this thing to Christabel.”

“What have you guys been up to?” Steve wondered aloud. “It’s like I can’t leave you alone!”

“God of Mischief,” Loki pointed out. 

Steve glanced at him, and laughed. He clapped the demigod on the back and they continued towards the mentalists’ enclave with their captive in tow.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will be entering Act 3 in the next chapter, and slowly dovetail into "Lost Gods"

 

The walk to Christabel’s lodge was a quiet one. They had made good time, the soldier and the demigod as they walked. Steve’s marching steps keeping pace with Loki’s long-legged gait. Loki had fashioned a travois of sorts that helped carry their recalcitrant captive, after it was obvious that the stalker would be resisting them every step of the way. Now, bound and leashed to the travois it could not do anything except spit invectives at them in its own native language.

“Such language,” Loki critiqued, the Allspeak lending him understanding of the creature’s words.

“You will drown in your own blood, godling!” it had hissed hatefully when they neared the mentalist’s abode.

Loki responded by placing the chains arounds its mouth, muzzling it.

Christabel met them at the door. “No one else knew about this?” she asked, hurrying them inside.

“Only Nabila,” Steve answered. “She promised not to say anything.”

“She can be trusted,” Christabel said with a nod. “You may tell the other Avengers about this, but no one else. Some spellweavers are full-fledged telepaths.”

“You are going to help mask the knowledge from them,” Loki stated.

 

Christabel nodded in answer. She opened a door, it led to a flight of stairs headed underground. Loki could see magical runes carved along the jamb. The runes radiated with powers speaking of containment and protection. The invisible stalker started to renew its struggles against the eldritch bindings Loki had placed. Its efforts grew more frantic as it neared the doorway, guttural whimperings coming from its muzzled mouth.

Loki could practically feel the psychic energy that lanced out from Christabel striking the stalker. The power was so immense it left a faint taste of acrid burn on his tongue. A glance at Steve confirmed that the soldier had felt it as well. The telepathic blow silenced the invisible stalker, its pinked-limned form rendered inert.

“What did you do?” Steve asked her.

“I put him to sleep. He was giving me a headache,” Christabel explained. “He panicked when he knew he was about to be placed underground—creatures from the Elemental Plane of Air experienced mild psychosomatic pain when placed underground.”

“How mild?” Steve asked.

Christabel shrugged. “Like having droplets of boiling water splashed on one’s skin.”

“That’s torture,” Steve said accusingly.

“Normally I would love to debate the finer points with you Steven, but right now the safety of my friend, along with my world, is at stake.”

Steve recoiled at the mentalist’s sharp tone. “You would know better, I guess.”

Christabel nodded at him and ushered them through. Loki waved aside Steve’s offer to help with the travois. The soldier had to remind himself that Loki is Thor’s brother, and thus had the same physical strength of most Asgardians.

They placed the creature in a room devoid of any windows. It was a square ten feet by ten feet wide. It was lit by four crystals that the mentalist had activated with a short sibilant word.

“A simple  _light_ spell,” Christabel said. “Arden and Harald developed it after seeing electrical lights during one of their forays into the prime during the 1920s.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “You adapted quickly,” he commented.

Loki grinned. “Asgard could use some of your ideas,” he agreed. “Believe it or not, we still use torches.”

“Magical torches, surely,” Christabel qualified.

“Still barbaric,” Loki argued playfully. He decided that this mentalist would make for an interesting ally.

“So do we need to feed him, or anything?” Steve motioned to the stalker still chained up in Loki’s eldritch conjuration.

“No need. They feed on air,” Christabel said as she motioned them out. She shut the door behind them, tracing a pattern in the air before the door that made the steel bracketed wood glow with a faint white glow for several moments. She turned to Loki. “You can take of the chains now. He won’t be going anywhere.”

Loki nodded, dismissing the bands of eldritch energy that had bound the stalker.

 

“Come,” Christabel said. “There is something I need to show you in the library.”

“What did you find?” Steve asked the blonde.

“Something that may be able to shed some light on the secrets Arden and the spellweavers have been keeping from me.”

“You don’t like secrets, do you?”

The blonde turned to him with an eyebrow raised. “I am a Class 10 telepath,” she iterated. “There is nothing I could not find out from just brushing against people’s minds. Imagine how annoying it is when I cannot read  _anything_ from the spellweavers.”

“They could be resistant, like Jory,” Steve pointed out.

Christabel shook her head. “Jory’s extreme resistance to spells and spell-like abilities is uniquely hers. To date, no other being has that ability.”

“How powerful is this resistance?” Loki asked. He was curious in spite of himself. He was a master of magic himself and his spells had just washed over the witch like water off of a duck’s back when they had battled.

“Short of god-like power—and even that is just conjecture—nothing gets past it,” was her answer.

“But Gared said Arden could,” Steve argued.

“Arden’s powers are supernatural abilities. They function as if they are an extension of him,” Christabel elaborated.

“Like a dragon’s fiery breath,” Loki chimed in. Steve looked at him. Loki shrugged, adding, “Gared provided some examples.”

They reached the library, its door open. As they entered, Steve could see that several books and scrolls were strewn across the three trestle tables. Six feys—mentalists, Steve would guess—were poring over some of the scrolls and books. They stood at attention and bowed to Christabel when they entered.

“Leave us,” she flicked a hand at them. “Keep watch on the perimeter. Save for Harald and Lady Jorinda, nothing comes in without my permission.”

One of the mentalists, a young male blanched slightly. “Not even Lady Hanalee or Lord Arden?” he asked.

“ _Especially_ them,” Christabel answered. “Alert me if there is anything suspicious.”

The six—Steve guessed them to be Christabel’s acolytes—bowed again and exited the room. As the filed out, the same man turned and murmured that he will send for tea.

“Thank you, Simon,” Christabel said with a small smile to him. The young fey bowed again and shut the door to the library.

“Your acolytes?” Steve asked.

“One way of describing it,” she nodded in answer. “They are my students. Telepaths ranging from Class 6 to 8. The last one Simon is a rarity, being a tele-empath.”

“A telepath and empath bybrid?” Loki joined in, intrigued.

“It is rare to find both those talents in one person. They are usually one or the other.”

“How does that make him special?” Steve asked.

“Telepathy always starts with the higher brain functions,” Christabel explained, smoothing over some of the scrolls on the table in front of her. “Empathy on the other hand operates on the subconscious, the darker aspect of the mind—the id.”

“If properly trained, an empath is almost impossible to defend against,” Loki surmised.

“Can you imagine how terrifying a person who can control both the Hulk and Bruce Banner could be?” Christabel asked Steve.

Steve felt his blood run cold at that rhetorical question. “You are trying to groom him as a defence if a Dark One has similar abilities,” he made it a statement of fact.

“They already have two with such abilities,” Christabel said heavily. She stared off into space for a moment before pulling herself together.

Steve was then struck by the gravity of what she had shared with them. Due to her self-possessed demeanour, it was easy to forget that Christabel was the leader of her people. Much like Arden who was responsible for the continued wellbeing of Shadivari and her denizens, Christabel was responsible for the wellbeing of _all_ mentalist who had cleaved to the Light. Furthermore, as the future queen of the dwarrows—wedded rulers in dwarven culture rule jointly—she will soon be adding more responsibilities on top of her current ones.

“So what have you discovered so far?” Steve asked her gently.

“Several prophecies,” Christabel answered, drawing out a scroll so ancient Steve was afraid she might rip it by accident.

“Prophecies,” Loki said with some distaste.

Christabel threw him a quelling look. “I understand just how disturbing the idea of predestination would be,” she began. “We take a slightly different perspective however.”

“Oh?” Loki queried, raising an eyebrow.

“Time is like water. It moves and adapts to its surroundings.”

“In short,” Steve piped in. “Nothing is set in stone.”

Loki glanced at him, his lips pursed as if he wanted to say something. “Very well,” he said at last. “I will remain an ambivalent cynic. A quiet one.”

“You are too kind,” the mentalist replied sardonically. She motioned to the scroll. “Do you mind if I let Steve borrow your knowledge of the Allspeak?”

“Why not?” Loki shrugged.

He had barely finished the sentence when a soft brush in his mind happened, followed by a yelp of surprise from Steve.

“Felt like an Orgasmatron,” Steve said with a chuckle. Loki raised his eyebrows at his statement. “Never mind,” he said to the demigod.

Steve turned the ancient scroll gently in his direction. The vellum was cracked but still held its shape well. He looked at the runes, noting how it seem to swim before his eyes as his newfound knowledge of the Allspeak adapted to the fey runes. He read aloud:

  
_“The white queen is troubled but cannot say why. The maiden is bound underneath her tree. The red king hungers for the black king’s blood and gives the assassin a black cloak. The assassin steals upon the maiden. The white queen cannot see him gliding through the shadows. His sword screams and the maiden falls. Her city falls. Stones fall to crush the white queen and the black king. The tree burns and thrashes in agony. Branches break, and grow twisted together.”_

Steve put down the scroll. He looked at Loki, who was frowning.

“Thoughts?” Steve asked him.

“The tree,” Loki mused. “That would be in reference to Yggdrasill, the World Tree.”

“If the maiden falls, this World Tree will be destroyed as well,” Steve murmured. He glanced at Christabel with a small smile. “I am guessing you are the white queen?”

“Just don’t tell Emma Frost,” Christabel smiled at him. “The maiden would be Jory. The kings red and black would be Lorien and Arden respectively.”

Steve reread the passage, a small frown on his face. “This tallies with what Jory and Arden had told us before. If the forbiddance is not repaired, the dimensional bleed will spill over into the prime. But what I don’t understand is …” he trailed off.

“What is it?” Loki asked sharply.

“This implies if something happens to Jory, the forbiddance cannot be rebuilt.”

Loki turned to look at Christabel. “Is he right?”

Christabel nodded. “It would seem so,” she answered. “However, I am no expert on dimensional barriers and the forbiddance,” Christabel warned. “What I do know is that the descendants of the original clans must be part of the circle when the ritual takes place. If one is lost, we lose the entire world.”

“Can’t you have another Witch Maiden take her place?” Steve asked, his voice anguished at the thought of harm coming to Jory.

“The mantle of the Maiden, Mother and Crone involves formal investiture and acclimatization to the power,” Christabel answered. She motioned to a slender volume on the desk, turning it to the middle and handing it over to him.

 

 _“When all seems lost,”_ Steve read aloud. _“Look to the children of Hawa and those beyond the stars.”_

Loki’s frown matched Steve’s. “Must they be so cryptic?” he muttered. “Who is Hawa?”

“In Ilmari, and certain prime languages—Arabic and Hebrew being two—it is the name we call Eve,” Christabel murmured.

“As in the biblical Eve?” Steve asked, his eyes starting to get a bit wild. Loki brushed his hand along his back, calming the soldier down. “Next thing I know there’s a talking lion named Aslan,” he muttered to himself.

“Am I safe in assuming that I am the one from beyond the stars?” he asked the blonde fey.

“It seems to fit, doesn’t it?” Christabel answered. “The painful part is trying to correlate some sort of timeline out of all this prophecies.” She sighed and turned to the door.

The door to the library opened and Harald came in, balancing a large tray filled with refreshments on one beefy arm. Loki advanced towards him at once and relieved the dwarf of his burden, setting it aside on one of the smaller tables not cluttered with books or scrolls.

“My thanks,” the dwarrow said graciously. He motioned to the scattered books and various scrolls. “Have you managed to make any sense out of anything in there?”

“Happenstance and some confirmation of things we already know,” Loki answered. “You do not have records of the ritual used to create the forbiddance?”

“That is one of the few things the spellweavers do not share with us,” Christabel sighed wearily. “While I understand the need to keep such ritual away from dangerous hands …”

“You could just go to Arden and root around in his head,” Harald pointed out quietly.

“Dear heart,” Christabel shook her head. “He was not even around during that time.”

“I know,” Harald smiled. “ _His ancestors were, however._ ”

The blonde looked at him for a very long moment. She bent and kissed him fondly on his lips. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

“Not lately,” the dwarf said easily. “It is high time to address that deficit, methinks.”

Loki rolled his eyes, although secretly he admired the gallant way the dwarf accepted the endearments. He turned to look at Steve and saw that the soldier had moved to one of the other tables. Loki moved to the third table, passing his hands over the scrolls and books and picking one that stroked his fancy. A random word jumped out at him from a scroll hidden beneath a pile of books and loose parchment:  _balance_ .

Loki moved the books and parchment sheets aside, carefully drawing out the scroll from under the pile. He scanned the first few paragraphs, noting certain key words that leapt out at him with growing interest: _forbiddance … cycle… replenish … balance … chosen daughter … power… in her blood._

He stopped at the last phrase, a chill climbing up his spine. He tracked back to the beginning and read it in full.

_  
It shall come to pass that the forbiddance will crumble, for nothing mortal nor mortal made will endure forever. When the cycle comes, gather the tools of destiny.  As one has taken from the world, so must the reverse be to replenish what one had partook. In all life there must be balance, else there will be chaos rampant in the aether that no forbiddance can repair._

_The instruments of destiny number five and chief of all importance will be the chosen daughter of the witch-women. Guard well this flower of hope for she will be unlike any other._

_Reap her gifts well for the power of the forbiddance is in her blood._

Loki’s knees buckled, the scroll falling unheeded to the table as he stumbled. His chest felt tight. Spots were dancing before his eyes. He felt faint…

“Loki!” came Steve’s voice and soon he felt the man’s strong arms lifting him up.

He felt Steve and Harald arrange his lanky frame on a winged chair. Christabel had folded several parchment and used it as a rudimentary fan.

“Here, drink this,” Harald held out a cup of tea to him. The dwarf held the cup steady while Loki took several small sips.

“What happened?” Steve asked. His fingers carded through Loki’s jet black hair, the gesture soothing the demigod from his panic attack.

Loki pointed a trembling hand to the scroll lying on the floor. “I think,” he gasped weakly against Steve’s chest. “I think I know why the spellweavers and the Lord of Shadivari are so close-mouthed about the ritual.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arden lost the plot, in a manner of speaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much drama ensues ...
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are welcome.

Victor punched the fey in the face. It dropped Adria on her back, stupefied momentarily before flipping back on her feet and coming back to feint towards Victor’s right. The mutant sidestepped and blocked a punch aimed towards his ribs. He caught the other hand by the wrist as the fey counterattacked. The sharp edges of the shurikens she wore along the length of her arm-guards cut his fingers, the blood making his grip slip slightly. The _snikt_ of a catch being released was his only warning before the arm-guard worn by the fey on his captured hand ejected a foot-long blade. Victor kicked out, using the momentum to flip backwards several feet.

“You fight dirty,” he growled appreciatively.

“And you are holding back,” the mentalist shot back. She wiped a trickle of blood away from her nose.

“Bring it,” the mutant growled, extending his claws.

Adria whipped out her left hand, sending two shurikens flying towards him. Victor backflipped, one shuriken passing over his arched torso—where his chest had been. The other zipped unheeded overhead—where his head was. Just as he reached the end of his backflip landing on on his feet, the shurikens exploded in a burst of electricity that caught him in webs of azure arcs as they danced across him. Disoriented, he missed the mentalist’s running jump. Adria’s knee caught him square in the jaw, the mentalist using her momentum to spin around and landing a kick on his side. It was a kidney shot, sending him to his knees. The mentalist did not stop there. A psychokinetic hammerblow sent him tumbling head over heels several feet.

After their meeting in Natasha’s room, Clint and Victor decided to look for Adam. The werebeast however could not be found. Victor murmured something about him taking wing before Adria spied them as she was heading to the sparring ground. She managed to convince Victor to spar with her. Outmanoeuvred, Victor had assented.

Clint winced at the sight of Victor landing in a heap after Adria had executed a blow at Victor’s throat. He had known that Adria was prone to violence when fighting. That she was a gifted a fighter as Natasha, Steve or himself was of no doubt but the level of cruelty he saw displayed disturbed him. He started to see now how these feys must have adapted to centuries of battles against their dark brethren—both sides attempting to wrest control of the Feywilds.

Some of these feys must have let strife mould them into tools of war. Adria was obviously one. Her twin would have been much the same. Adam, and the wild-looking dryad Megaline who had arrived yesterday seemed to be another. While he had yet to encounter one, he would hazard a guess that the aloof and xenophobic elves to be cut from the same cloth. Some though, prefer diplomacy and intimidation to keep their opponents in check. Christabel and Arden—due to both their stations and powers—seemed to have forged that particular divergent path.

His role as a sniper, and observing things from a distance allowed him an ability to see the larger picture made up of all the discrepancies and going-ons around him.

The spellweavers then present an enigma to Clint. They have enough concentrated power to carve out a realm of their own, or annexe one if they desire so—though the latter would bring them into conflict with others. Clint was of a mind that the spellweavers would triumph either way. Yet, the most magically powerful of the feys satisfy themselves by living in small communities alongside others, or limit themselves to a chain of floating islands the size of Cyprus—while Shadivari and Elysium were the sizes of Canada and Mongolia respectively.

And the way these feys act around Jory!

Clint had observed it first from the treatment look the witch had gotten during their stay at the Argent Palace. One would be tempted to dismiss it as simple hero-worship but the undercurrent of reverence in the attention the witch receives hinted at something much more. It had gotten even more obvious from the day they met up with their dwarrow escorts Harald had arranged. The dwarves might as well kiss the ground Jory stepped on from the way they keep looking at her. It was not her looks. And as these feys have been living with enough displays of magical feats, he discounted her magic being a possible reason. It _could_ be her title as the Maiden of the Witches, though he did not see that reverence in the way other feys treat Hanalee, the Mother of the Witches. It was like she was their saviour… Clint started.

Certain pieces started to fall into place. He recalled the briefing Jory had given them back at the mansion: _“_ _One volunteer each from the ruling houses; from the werebeasts, spellweavers, elementars, invokers, mentalists and dryads… the Great Crone working the spell gave the signal that would draw the lifeblood from the willing sacrifice.”_

“Oh fuck,” he breathed out.

He returned his attention to the mock battle between Victor and Adria. His lover had managed to discern a pattern behind the mentalist’s techniques, and is holding his own. Clint smiled as Victor grabbed Adria’s long hair and forced her face down to collide with his knee. The upraised leg then snapped out and caught her in the solar plexus. Before she could equilibrate, a spinning back-kick sent her flying to land on her face in the dirt.

“I think we’re done,” Victor growled at the fey.

Adria raised her face from the dirt. “Good fight,” she commented. “I think Clint is asking you to join him.” There was a slightly calculating look on her face, her lips pursed after she finished speaking.

Victor turned towards the bench the archer was seated and waved, motioning for Clint to wait. The other man nodded, rising to his feet. The mutant turned back to the fey, offering a hand. She took it, rising to her feet. He made to turn towards Clint but she grabbed his arm, her nails digging into the flesh.

“Listen,” she began. He looked at her. She seemed to be struggling to say something before she ground out, “whatever happens, please don’t judge us too harshly. Especially Chris.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “I have said enough,” she waved away his question, backing away hurriedly. “Go.”

Victor watched her as she left, her black-leather clad figure swallowed by the arch of the doorway she disappeared into. He heard Clint walking over to him and he turned towards the other man.

“What just happened?” Clint asked him.

“I think she just made us,” Victor answered.

“Damn,” Clint swore. “I forgot she’s also a telepath.” He paused. “Do you think she’s going to say anything?”

“I don’t think so. She answers to Christabel.”

“Yeah, true,” Clint drawled out. “But we are on a spellweaver enclave right now.”

Victor shrugged. “Unless protocols have changed here, as a visiting ruler they can only ask Christabel and her entourage to leave.”

“There’s always assassination, Victor.”

“I have a feeling Christabel have already set precautions against that particular possibility.”

Clint mulled it over. Victor could be right. The blonde mentalist did not strike him as someone who takes danger to her person lightly. “Worry about that later,” Clint decided at last. “I think I know what’s going on with these witches.”

A burst of fireworks on the other side of the island in blue, red and white caught their attention.

“What the fuck was that?” Clint asked aloud.

“Loki?” Victor guessed.

“Calling for Captain America?” Clint returned, with a grin.

“Steve _is_ a very handsome man,” Victor pointed out. “The very pinnacle of human perfection.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Clint nodded. “Come on,” he said, heading towards the general direction the flare was coming from.

 

  
* * *

 

Steve read the passage again. He felt ill just trying to imagine what the passage implied. He turned to Christabel.

“Am I reading this right?” Steve asked the mentalist. “She said before that there was blood-letting in the ritual. How much blood is needed? Is Jory going to be sacrificed?”

“We do not know that,” Harald said gently. “The term _in her blood_ could be meant symbolically, like her magical powers.”

Steve glanced at Loki. The demigod shrugged listlessly. “He may be right,” he said, his voice faint.

“He could be _wrong!_ ” Steve shouted. Loki flinched at his tone. “ _As one has taken from the world, so must the reverse be to replenish what one had partook,_ ” Steve read aloud. “You’re a sorcerer, Loki. Tell me if something like the forbiddance—a barrier that can keep away an entire world filled with millions of magical creatures from running rampant across the universe—can be cast with just a worded spell.”

Loki looked at him helplessly. “There is a possibility,” Loki answered tentatively. “You must remember, these feys practice a form of magic that is alien to me.”

Steve took a deep breath, placing the scroll back onto the table, leaning onto it. “So where does that leave us?”

“A compelling reason to keep my friend alive,” Christabel answered. “You understand that neither Harald nor I could help you overtly.”

“Of course,” Loki said, rising to his feet. “Layers upon layers of intrigue these spellweavers have woven, they best pray they do not get themselves tangled.”

Steve smirked at the demigod’s word-play. “We should be going,” he noted, spying the setting sun through the window.

Christabel passed a folded parchment to Loki. “The spell will place whatever discussed amongst yourselves embedded within your subconscious so no surface scans can lift them from your minds.” She gestured around the library. “My cottage is already warded with such precaution,” she explained. “You need not worry about what has transpired here.”

“My thanks,” Loki said, pocketing the parchment. “Shall we?” he asked Steve.

They walked slowly, not really in a hurry in returning to Hanalee’s ranch. The walk was a quiet one, both Steve and Loki mulling over what they have learned. The deepening twilight had made Loki fashion a light source from a stone that he made glow like a torch by breathing on it. The soft white glow encompassed an area ten feet in diameter, lighting their way through the gloom.

Steve stopped suddenly. “Listen,” he said softly, his voice hushed. “Do you hear that?”

Loki cocked his head, listening hard. He heard voices, heading their way. He told Steve so.

“Sounds like Clint,” Steve said, once they could make out the voices as they came nearer.

They continued their advance, coming to meet Clint and Victor after several minutes of walking.

“What are you doing here?” he asked the archer.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Victor pointed out.

“We saw the colourful sparks from the other side of the island,” Clint answered Steve. He looked at Loki. “Was that you?”

Loki nodded.

“What happened?” Victor asked, his voice holding a soft growl.

“Not here,” Loki said, shaking his head.

“Right,” Clint said, understanding in a flash. “Let’s head back.”

They did not see the watcher hidden in the topmost branches, blending among the leaves and the scents of the forest, oblivious to the dark intelligence behind the dark eyes. Long after the four had left the trail, the watcher unfurled his wings and flew away into the night towards his master.

 

  
* * *

 

Arden turned away from the window, opening his eyes as he sensed the return of Clint and Victor. The more he allowed the Shadowplane to merge with his being, the more he becomes meshed with all shadows and all that happens within darkness around him. He could sense the four—Clint, Victor, Loki and Steve—were on their way to the ranch. He knows that should he will it, he could extend his consciousness to his throne room in the Argent Palace or anywhere the Plane of Shadow touches. From the Feywilds to the Prime, to the lower planes and even beyond to the Astral Sea where old gods lie slumbering in deathlike sleep.

As he neared the Arboreal Islands and the ritual to cast the forbiddance he had allowed himself to immerse fully into the Shadowplane. He surrendered the corporeal body he had taken on, slowly returning to his original form defined by light and shadows. His skin became chalk-white. Had they been within Shadivari’s borders, his skin would glisten with a silvery sheen in the light of the full moon. In the daylight of Elysium they look like ivory. His eyes became pools of wispy shadows roiling across the sclera.

He knew the physical changes disturbed both Victor and Clint. They have not had sex since his transformation. Even conversation became stilted, as the Shadowplane exerted more of itself onto him. He felt himself harden and turn grim to reflect the effects of the metamorphosis. He was an elementar, a fey creature that reflected the facet of the natural world he was tied to. As a shadowfey, he was the embodiment of darkness, the infinite chasm of the unknown, the cold of the night and darker side of nature. Death. The Void.

_The Void. The Weave. The five instruments of destiny. The children of Hawa. The one from beyond the stars. The ritual of the forbiddance._

These are the flashes of images, scenes and words—at times blurred by the incalculable passage of time, at another crisp and clear—sometimes intruding upon his thoughts. He had always managed to keep them buried in his mind when he was in corporeal form, only letting the skillset accumulated through the ages to bleed through to his consciousness—ego and id. As he become more attuned to the essence of the Shadowplane and the more aspects of his natural state returns, so do these genetic memories of his ancestors.

Some of those memories were of a nascent world filled with promises and magic. As one of the firstborn, they had beheld the sights around them in wonder. From the woodlands, the rivers and oceans, plains and dark caverns—they started to stake their claim on the world. A world that became witness to the coming of humanity, and the fallen sparks of the divine that slowly died like embers—leaving behind beings with blackened souls. The fallen angels. There had been war then between their kinds—feys against demons. They triumphed, consigning the demons to the lower planes and warding the world against demonkind so that none may step foot unless invited or called through magical means.

A world that slowly turned dark with the passage of eons. Humanity advanced while his kind dwindled.

Death.

Destruction.

War.

Banishment.

The three candles in the candelabra and the small fire in the fireplace were the room’s only sources of lighting. He could see just fine in the gloom, seeing things clearly albeit in muted and darker shades compared to when it was broad daylight. After years of forgetting who he was while he had thought—and played at passing himself—as human, he felt again the same despair and sense of loss that made him leave his power behind before. The flickering candles behind threw his roiling shadow before him, proof of his unrestful mind.

There were moments when he had to excuse himself to calm himself before returning to the party while on their way to the Arboreal Islands. Here in the magic-rich islands, he grew heady with the influx of energies coursing through the aether. He could practically spoon the magical energies into his mouth—it was that thick. It was not enough that he grew short and testy. He was not so sure if the despondency was remembrances of the darker memories or the influences of the Shadowplane. It was growing difficult to differentiate between the memories of his ancestors and his own. Little by little he could feel pieces of his identity being washed away by the encroaching Shadowplane. It was as if he was being consumed by the Void … and being replaced by a darker version of himself. One who is grim and quick to anger and hate.

One who is surely turning mad.

The door opened, letting in his two lovers.

“Hey,” Victor said, coming up behind him to wrap his arms around Arden.

Arden let himself turn immaterial and walked out of the embrace. He did not miss the look Victor exchanged with Clint. It only served to fuel his discontent. Discontent that was steadily turning into rage.

“Is something wrong?” Victor asked.

“You look disturbed,” Clint added.

“Don’t you mean disturbing?” he retorted, his voice almost guttural. _Stop it,_ a part of himself cried inwardly.

“That was uncalled for,” Victor protested, a growl in the dark.

“I find it disturbing that my boyfriend prefers to skulk in the dark,” Clint rebutted.

“How amusing,” Arden said, gesturing. The gloom receded, shadows pulling back like liquid curtains to trail like smoke into him. “One would feel that someone of your history prefers darkness.” The shadowfey grinned cruelly. “Two killers playing at being heroes.”

“Arden!” Victor barked. “Enough.”

“You are in no position to give me orders,” Arden replied, fixing those blank, black eyes on him.

Victor splayed his hands wide in a placating gesture. “I’m not,” he said. “I just want you to tell me—tell us—what is wrong?”

_Everything_ , the sane inner voice answered. “What were you doing outside just now, with Steve and Loki?”

“Nothing,” Victor said. “We were just exploring. Steve and Loki went to Christabel’s cottage for tea. We ran into them when we were coming back.”

“Lies!”

Clint had walked over to stand near on his left. “Baby,” he said, holding out his hand. “Calm down.”

“Stay away from me!” Arden hissed, his gesture sending a stream of shadowy ribbons that gathered Clint and slammed the archer into the wall before cocooning him within their inky strands.

“Let him go!” Victor yelled. “Are you out of your mind?”

_I’m afraid so_. “Be quiet,” he said, sending a coruscating wall of blackness that hammered Victor into the wall with thunderous effect. The mutant fell to the floor, unconscious.

There was a thudding of feet and the door to his room was opened to let in Steve, Loki and Jory.

“What is going on here?” the soldier asked, gasping when he saw Clint’s form webbed to the wall in the inky strands.

“I was afraid of this,” Jory muttered. “He is mentally drowning in his ancestral memories.”

“Has this happened before?” Loki asked.

“Not him personally, but it has happened to other elementars before.”

“Do not whisper as if I am not present, witch!” the shadowfey warned, his fingers dancing with tongues of black fire.

A whispered word from Jory snuffed the flames dancing around his fingers. The calm side of him was thankful the witch managed to dispel the _soulreaver’s fire_ but the dominant, angry part of his mind started to call upon the darker aspects of his powers. In his mind’s eye, he could see rifts between realities as doorways between dimensions bleeds into another. The aspects of the Shadowplane bled through to crackle around his fingers. The lethal arcs of lightning. The killing touch of frost. The enervating wash of decay. His calm, inner core struggled through the maelstrom that was his mind now, knowing that he could only do this once before he was drowned again by the anger and hate.

“Get out, Jory!” he could hear his own voice. _No,_ the tempest within growled _. I want her power!_

The witch must have recognised which part of him had been given voice. She nodded once and uttered a single word, a quickened teleportation spell that gathered Clint, the unconscious Victor, Steve, Loki and her away in a blink. Unseen to him, the spell also gathered other residences within the house and deposited them several hundred yards from the ranch. The calm side of him could sense that the ranch was empty, that the movement of the teleport signatures placed them beyond his immediate reach.

He gave a small smile, satisfied that this small victory allowed his friends to escaped unscathed and surrendered the small gleam of light back to darkness within.

The ranch exploded.  
  
  



	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christabel's hidden plan unfolds. Betrayal.

Debris showered over the spot where the ranch had stood. Steve held Jory in his arms, keeping the witch safe. They were staring in mute shock at the spot where the ranch was. The ranch that was now reduced to a sizable pile of rubble.

Loki was looking over the other occupants. Cargill and Natasha appeared slightly dazed due to the teleport effect from Jory’s spell but were otherwise unharmed. Clint and Victor sported bruises from Arden’s unprovoked attack but they were able to stand on their feet. Hanalee rushed over to the two, fingers of one hand weaving sigils in the air while she placed the other on to Victor then Clint. The healing rush of magic had the two men sitting down in the afterrush, the euphoric effect alleviating the tension and hurt.

“What happened to him?” Loki asked Jory. “You said he was taken over by his ancestral memories?”

“Something like this happened to Rogue,” Steve cut in. “When she was still unable to control her powers, the memories and personas of the people she had absorbed established themselves as separate entities or personalities inside her mind.”

“Steve is correct,” the witch confirmed.

“Why now?” Loki pressed.

“Arden have never actually allowed those memories to surface,” Jory explained. “He only allowed the skillsets accumulated over the years to bleed through to his mind but always clamped down on the other parts of his ancestral memories. I would guess that he was unprepared when he unleashed the mental blocks keeping those ancestral memories hidden.”

“Why didn’t he let those memories surface?”

“Some of his ancestors can be, ah…” Jory paused, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Antagonistic?” Loki supplied.

“That would be a diplomatic way of describing it,” Jory nodded. “You also have to remember that we are talking about multiple, centuries-old consciousness. Each with their own distinct perspectives.”

“So we have a powerful shadowfey going berserk due to multiple personality disorders running loose in God knows where,” Cargill recapped acerbically.

“You’re not helping,” Natasha murmured an aside.

 “Can we bring him back?” Victor asked, his voice soft.

“We can,” Jory assured him, laying a comforting arm on the other man’s arm. “If he is still trapped within his own mind, we will bring him back. I promise.” She turned to Hanalee. “Could you summon the rest of the covens? I have a feeling we are going to need them.”

Hanalee nodded. “I have notified the three circles to gather on the island. We will meet you at the standing stones.” She shimmered as she waved a hand, slowly fading from sight as she teleported away.

“What would happen if he is still lost in those memories,” Clint asked. “Would that affect the ritual?”

Jory shook her head. She had a slightly despairing look on her face as she answered. “Sanity is not a requirement,” she answered softly. “Only his presence.”

 

 

* * *

 

He flew, his great stamina carrying him on broad wings accustomed to lengthy flights over land and sea. He kept close to the sea level, his form hidden among the tossing waves and not easily discerned over the horizon. The new moon shone weakly, its light and that of the stars obscured by the advancing clouds slowly plunging the vista surrounding them momentarily into gloom. 

A quick thrust down, and his wings carried him to spiral up. Borne aloft by the updrafts, beyond the banks of clouds providing him cover from any onlookers. The landlocked occupants of the islands were like ants from his elevated position. Like the dust that they are.

Adam grinned. His dark eyes widened in excitement as he caught the flash of light from the broad expanse of the Emerald Tide. The oceans swelled, waves high and angry. The quick glimmer of light would be hidden from the watchers on the islands.

He had been paying close attention to the signals his dark allies had arranged.

Plans that have been developed several decades ago at last coming to fruition. The items have been methodically crossed out of the list as they have proceeded.

Introducing himself into the Lord of Shadivari’s circle of friends.

The murder of Khaymin Longstider, the Lord Consort of Shadivari. That was easy. The orc never saw the blade that ended his life.

The early ambush set when the Lord of Shadivari attempted to surrender the burden of ruling by taking the Ebon Pathways. Sacrificing the Horsemen had not been part of the plan, but it opened up the ranks for ambitious, enterprising feys such as him.

Dragging the investigation of Arden’s disappearance. Sending assassins after him, when it was obvious he did not remember who—and what—he was. Harry him so he must always be on the move, limiting his support system.

The _calling_ that had brought them the Prince of Asgard. The original purpose of the _calling_ spell was to summon a powerful denizen of the lower planes that could bypass the goddess-blessed wards of the Arboreal Islands but it ensnared a God of Mischief instead.

Adam laughed at how apropos it all had been.

The demigod had been completely ignorant of how the Void and the Ebon Pathways work. And that allowed them to pierce the shadowy roads of the Ebon Pathways and backtrack into the demigod’s realm. The Bifrost alone would be an excellent tool in their mission of expansion.

Playing up the persona of a hot-headed, muscle-bound oaf was almost too easy. He had been trained in keeping his thoughts and true agenda hidden even before the close-combed scrutiny of the Mentalist Prime.

It was easy to keep pace with the Lord of Shadivari due to his own unique abilities. As a werebeast, his kind possesses rapid healing and regenerative abilities that kept the ravages of time at bay. No one knew for sure how long a werebeast’s natural lifespan were—it was a closely guarded secret among his kind.

For far too long his people have followed the rules of the Light. Primal urges and the exhilaration of the hunt were now mere memories, like the world they had been banished from. His wilder brethren have enjoyed the freedom of not cleaving to either Light or Dark, seceding from both factions to opt to run free throughout the Feywilds and beyond whenever they discovered portals that bled into other realms.

He could not wait to participate in what is coming next.

Gather all the instrumental people in one spot. Subvert the ritual of forbiddance. Annihilate the witches.

Let the forbiddance crumble into ruin beyond any hope of repair…

He spun in mid-air, his jubilation making him giddy.

There are only the Avengers to worry about.

The werebeast stilled his wings, letting eddies of air carry him as he considered the potential threats the humans may pose. No matter, he decided. Once they have ensured the forbiddance could never be renewed, there will be time enough to attend to them. After all, he had already compiled quite an impressive dossier from the reconnaissance missions he had participated in. It had been quite easy to make a duplicate of those reports; which is the biggest threat, who to remove first. Who could be made pawns, or an expendable ally.

A sharp burst of light on the northwestern corner of the island of Romea caught his attention. That would be where Hanalee’s ranch was. Curious, the werebeast veered towards the direction.

 

 

* * *

 

Steve and Jory had managed to corral the rest of them towards Christabel’s lodge. The blonde fey had met them at the door, Harald standing a few steps behind her. Steve felt a small feathery touch against his mind when the mentalist took stock of their appearance.

“Arden went berserk, I take it?” she had asked, making it more of a statement of fact.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Loki had answered.

“Do you know a way to bring him back?” Victor asked.

The mentalist nodded. “It will be difficult,” she answered. “But not impossible.” She turned towards herald and nodded, a silent communication passing between them. The dwarrow turned and made his way back to the door of the lodge.

They were brought into the library. Cargill let out a small murmur of admiration at the collection of books on the shelves.

“The difficulty will be in trying to locate him,” Christabel began. “Arden is quite adept at hiding.”

Clint looked at Jory. “He’s a psychic, too, isn’t he?” he asked. “You mentioned before that he can make us see whatever he wants us to see.”

The witch shrugged. “In a manner of speaking,” she answered. “If one is to be technical, he is an illusionist. He has some low-level empathic ability that we had never bothered charting—”

Christabel had snorted indelicately at that. “ _We_ did,” she answered smugly.

Jory stilled, levelling a glare at the mentalist. “I should have guessed,” she allowed finally, a wry twist to her lips.

“Arden’s abilities bleed into each other,” Christabel explained. “His empathic abilities stem from the influence of the Shadowplane, opening his consciousness to the dark recesses of the mind—the id. His translocation and intangibility came from folding himself in and out between dimensions. The shapeshifting and matter manipulation from the shadow-stuff that exists on the Shadowplane.”

“And now he is running free whilst in the throes of his ancestral memories,” Loki stated. “I have some experience walking the Ebon Pathways. I can help locate him.”

Christabel nodded. “Follow me.” She looked at Loki. “You have spells that can work against shadowfey?” She held up a hand at Victor’s and Clint’s protestations. “Only if he turns violent.”

The God of Mischief nodded. “Some,” he answered. “I require you to keep him away from me if I am going to be slinging spells at a crazed Lord of Shadivari.”

“He is going to make you his target,” Steve nodded. “I’ll help draw some of his attacks away from you if needed.”

“As will I,” Jory added.

“Absolutely not!” Christabel said. “You are too important to squander.”

Jory’s green eyes turned hard as agates. “I will not stand aside while our friend can be saved,” she said quietly, her voice steely. “He would do the same for any one of us!”

“And we will save him,” Wanda’s voice came from the direction of the library’s doorway.

Steve, Loki, Clint and Victor turned quickly towards the door. Wanda, Pietro, Rogue, Hank and Thor were crowded against the entry to the room.

Pietro had zipped straight to Clint’s side, wrapping his arm around the archer’s shoulder. “So, I hear you have a boyfriend now?” he asked, impishly. Victor cleared his throat. “Make that _two_ boyfriends,” the silver-haired man amended, after throwing an apologetic look at Victor.

“Hank!” Cargill cried out in surprise.

“How—” Steve began.

“I have been coordinating certain steps with Rogue and Hank before we left for the Feywilds,” Christabel explained.

“She implanted the knowledge on how to cast the spell to travel into the Feywilds in my mind,” Wanda continued, picking up the thread of conversation.

Clint turned towards the mentalist, his eyes narrowing. “How long have they been here?”

“Five days after we returned to the Feywilds,” Christabel answered. “I summoned my people to meet them and bring them to the Arboreal Islands.”

“And you secured Arden’s permission to execute your plans,” Natasha joined in, remembering the conversation on the promontory when they had first arrived in Shadivari. She looked admiringly at the blonde, appreciating the effort put in the clandestine machinations.

“Brother,” Thor murmured in greeting.

“Hello, Thor,” Loki returned, a wry smile on his lips. “You will note that I am nowhere the cause of this particular excitement.”

Thor chuckled. “Have no fear,” he replied. “The lady Christabel has explained it all.”

Jory shook her head. “This does not address why you want me sidelined.”

Steve exchanged a look with Loki. The demigod returned his glance, his expression troubled. Christabel caught their glances and sighed out loud.

“You might as well tell them,” Steve said, looking at the blonde.

The mentalist gestured, lifting the same piece of parchment Loki had read before telekinetically and sent it fluttering towards the witch.

Jory spared a questioning look at the mentalist before turning her attention to the parchment. Her face was unreadable as she perused the parchment, her figure still.

“I see,” she said finally, lowering the parchment to her lap where it floated to the floor.

Natasha picked up the parchment and frowned when she looked at it. It was apparent she could not read the Ilmari runes. “Thor?” she asked, handing the parchment to the God of Thunder. Let the Allspeak do the work for her, the redhead decided.

Thor frowned, then let out a small oath when he understood what he had read. He turned towards Natasha, his face mirroring the troubled look on Steve and Loki’s face. “Art thou certain this text conveys its intended meaning thus?” he asked aloud.

“What does it say?” Natasha hissed in impatience.

Thor took a deep breath and recited out loud, “ _It shall come to pass that the forbiddance will crumble, for nothing mortal nor mortal made will endure forever. When the cycle comes, gather the tools of destiny.  As one has taken from the world, so must the reverse be to replenish what one had partook. In all life there must be balance, else there will be chaos rampant in the aether that no forbiddance can repair. The instruments of destiny number five and chief of all importance will be the chosen daughter of the witch-women. Guard well this flower of hope for she will be unlike any other. Reap her gifts well for the power of the forbiddance is in her blood._ ”

The ensuing silence was broken by Clint, who let out a small whistle. “That explains a few things,” he murmured to Victor.

Jory let out a dry laugh. “It does, doesn’t it?” she asked aloud. The witch stood, seemingly taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “You are correct,” she said to Christabel. “I am too valuable a resource.”

“You know if there is another way—” the mentalist replied before she was cut off.

“Therein is the rub,” Jory said with a sad smile. “There is no other way, is there?”

The mentalist looked at her, frozen.

“I know that if there is a way you would have already found it,” the witch continued gently. She stepped forward to clasp Christabel’s hands in hers. “We have never been quite as close as I would have liked, but I know that you are a true friend,” she stated. “Now there is another friend that needs you.”

“Arden,” Christabel murmured.

Jory nodded, letting go of the mentalist’s hands. She stepped around the gathering, making her way to the doorway of the library. Harald caught her hands as she passed, placing a reverent kiss on her palms.

“I wish to retire for the night, Harald,” she murmured. “Will you see to it that I am undisturbed?”

Harald nodded. “As you wish, lady.”

Jory smiled, laying a fond hand against his bearded cheek. She turned to look at each of them in the eye.

“Save him,” she said, her eyes resting on Christabel.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The bat flitted away. Adam watched it fly away with a grin.

Things are now seemingly working towards their favour. The Lord of Shadivari have been overwhelmed by his ancestral memories. Adam let out a small chuckle. A mentally incapacitated shadowfey lord now would not be that much of a challenge against the might of his allies. The whampiri lord Lorien would certainly welcome this new development.

And the secret of the forbiddance! Ah, that explains why the spellweavers were always so secretive about the ritual. He knew a prose read out of context might not be a true representation of the whole but he understood enough of magic to know that it all hinges on the Maiden of the Witches.

He banked to the right, making his way to the small collection of trees near the western cliffs.

He landed gracefully, folding his wings behind him. He felt the sensation of being watched, having developed that almost supernatural sixth-sense from years of battle. He took a deep breath, detecting a faint feminine musk.

“It’s just me,” Adria said, walking out from behind the large trunk of a spruce.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she countered, an eyebrow raised. She kept her eyes on him, circling confidently.

“I was stretching out a few kinks,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes.

“As was I,” she returned, mockingly.

“In full leather armour?” Adam countered.

Adria paused in her circle, pursing her lips as she pointedly took in his banded breastplate.

Adam growled at the mocking undertones her look telegraphed. “I am not answerable to you,” he bit out.

“Interestingly enough, I was not the one who started with the questions.”

Adam nodded in acknowledgement at the pointed gaff. “I will be on my way, then,” he said, making a show of unfurling his wings.

“Not just yet,” Adria snapped. One of her hands unsheathed one of her short-swords from its scabbard. “Tell me, Adam,” she asked. “Why is it that when I tried to probe your mind I encountered a blank wall?”

“I was trained to hide my thoughts,” he shrugged. His right fingers twitched towards his mace.

“That was what I thought at first,” the mentalist seemingly agreed. “Until I realised that your surface thoughts stayed the same, day by day. I doubt you wore the same pair of breeches since returning to Shadivari.”

“I was not aware my laundering habits were of such interest?” he retorted with a nasty grin. His fingers brushed against the handle of his mace.

She allowed him the retort, pausing only to bring up the hand holding the sword, its point towards him. “It is when today’s surface thoughts accidentally repeated itself,” Adria replied. “You had a sparring session with Victor today. I find it odd since I did not see you when I sparred with him today.” She paused. “One could say those surface thoughts were programmed.”

Adam stilled. His eyes kept track of Adria however, gauging the distance between them.

She paused, unsheathing her other sword from its scabbard. “I know you are measuring the distance between us,” she stated. “I know this by looking at your body language, not from reading your mind.” She stopped, letting a telekinetic bubble form around her. “ _Why can’t I read your mind, Adam?_ ”

He swung his arm up, smashing the mace against the telekinetic bubble Adria had erected. The force of the blow sent the mentalist towards the broad trunk of a fir. Her body shattered in sparks of luminescent silver when it impacted against the tree.

_A telekinetic construct!_

Adam cursed his forgetfulness at that particular speciality of hers. He flung his left wing out when his keen ears detected a rush of movement from the side. His wing collided against another of her telekinetic constructs, making him hiss in pain when the razor-sharp serrations the mentalist had added bit into the fleshy parts. He glanced, spying the dispersing telekinetic energy as the psionic blades disappeared from where they were embedded in his wings.

Adam knew Adria would be a deadly opponent if he gave her enough reach. She may be quick with her blades, and while she could armour herself with telekinetic energy she was still mortal. She will tire, eventually.

Adam grinned, letting his canines lengthen and his dark brown eyes changed into crimson.

“Whampiri,” Adria breathed out, stepping out from behind a pine tree to his right. “You allied yourself with Lorien. Why?”

“Why not?” he rasped out, lunging towards her.

She dodged, lashing out with a telekinetic bolt that caught him a glancing hit on the shoulders. His answering swing of the mace narrowly missed her face as she sidestepped. She returned the attack, her right sword hand penetrating his defences—tracing a line of fire against his left side. A backflip took her out of the range of his wings when he tried to buffet her with bone-crushing intent.

The shallow cut on his side closed almost immediately, his whampiri powers accelerating his fast healing abilities. He felt a spark of bloodlust rising. He would need to feed soon to replenish his abilities—a mentalist of her power, and knowledge! He almost salivated at the thought.

A telekinetic blow sent him several feet back. He grunted at the bones in his chest him grinding against one another as his ribs mended themselves. It was with a pleased huff that he let out when the internal mending only took several seconds. Had it not been due to his new whampiri abilities, his fast healing would have taken several minutes to mend the injury.

Several more telekinetic blows hammered into him. He felt his collarbone shatter from one of the onslaughts. He roared his fury when one of her razor-discs scored a glancing hit near the corner of his eye, the silver-edged bite tracing a line of fire against his face. The wound kept bleeding, his regenerative abilities kept at bay by the magic-forged weapon’s bite. Adria had apparently saw the effect the razor-disc had on him. She danced away while throwing several more telekinetic strikes at his joints, striking at his shoulders, elbows and knees. Strikes that were intended to immobilize him momentarily—a common tactic, to immobilize a difficult kill. His quick reflexes helped him evade the attacks from hitting their desired targets, but not from hitting his person. Wounds scored on his thighs and arms closed as his body regenerated itself.

A tang of acrid, metallic scent assailed hi nostrils. Silver. The mentalist had carried liquid silversheen around her person! The liquid compound were normally used when bypassing werebeasts’ regenerative abilities as silver quells their fast healing. It renders any wounds sustained to mend at a normal rate.

He felt a small touch of fear. He knew that Adria is a fearsome fighter, especially with her tendencies to favour lethal tactics. He had never been pitted against the mentalist in this scenario and he wondered if this is a fight that he could walk away from.

Adria’s mind meanwhile had reached out to her lady liege, but Christabel was out of range. She sent an alarm along the expanses of the Astral Plane, trusting blindly that one of her fellow mentalists is awake and would pick up the distress signal and act accordingly. She dropped the silversheen phial to the ground.  The liquid compound had only enough to coat one of her swords. She sent another barrage of telekinetic strikes, shaping them into fist-sized globes of energy designed to rupture internal organs or break bones—for _normal_ opponents at least.

Adam had woven around the strikes, bringing his mace to bear. He batted some of the energy globes sent his way, sending them flying to hammer and shatter into the surrounding trees and foliage. As he neared, he swung two-handed, the mace making contact against her telekinetic field and sending hairline cracks running across its surface even as she was sent head over heels by the force of the impact. At their base level, a werebeast is capable of lifting three tonnes. The impact she felt was close to dispersing at least three times that amount.

She sent several bands of telekinetic energy to wrap around him, hoping to immobilise him. The bands held for almost ten seconds before it started to crack. The werebeast gave a massive shrug, shattering the telekinetic hold she had attempted. She felt little twinges of pain at the feedback caused by the abrupt energy dispersal.

_He is even stronger now!_

The werebeast had not relaxed upon sending her flying. His movements confident, he followed up with several hits from his mace, the weapon coruscating with crackles of energy as he activated its magical properties. A spark of that energy danced across her weakened shield, battering away at her defences.

The mentalist dropped the protective field. She evaded the deadly arcs of lightning, her agility honed by countless battles serving her well. She charged at the werebeast, slashing with her swords. Her aim was unerring, as always. The werebeast howled when the silver-coated blade bit deep into the flesh of his lower right arm. His weakened fingers dropped the mace, but his left hand managed to grab a handful of the female’s jet-black hair. Yanked forcefully by the grip in her hair, Adria relaxed and followed the direction of the pull. The enraged werebeast brought his knee against the mentalist’s torso, gouging deep into her gut. The blow sent the air whooshing out of the female. She barely managed to create a flimsy wall that only just managed to cushion a punch directed at her face. As it was, the collision of his fist against her generated field sent a painful psychic feedback. Spots danced before her eyes as she dropped onto the ground.

Adam let go of his grip and moved towards his fallen mace. The weapon hummed when he gripped it, arcs of lightning dancing around its business end as he hefted it experimentally. Adria raised herself on one elbow, glaring at him as he advanced. She sent several telekinetic strikes, wincing inwardly as she sensed her strength behind the attacks failing her. He shrugged the blows as if they were water splashed against his skin—despite the bruises and welts that formed and disappeared quickly due to his accelerated healing. Growling, she sent two razor-discs flying towards him as she staggered to her feet. He dodged the one that would have sheared through his jugular, but one bit deep into his chest. He snapped a guttural word of command, pointing the head of the mace at her. A blinding arc of lightning erupted from the weapon to hammer against her hastily erected shield. The shield held the attack at bay for several seconds before splintering in silvery shards as the stroke of energy advanced to strike her squarely in the chest. The impact sent her several feet along the ground to end against the broad trunk of a pine tree.

The impact against the tree jarred Adria’s focus. The chest of her enchanted leather armour lay smoking, the material scored by the lightning but still holding—barely. She used the distance to tumble to the side, shielding herself against the shower of splinters sent by the tree split by yet another one of Adam’s lightning strikes.

She formed several blade-like telekinetic constructs, sending them whirling towards the werebeast’s wings. She knew she only had three more of the razor-discs in her arsenal and that a ranged attack would be her best mode of attack. Unfortunately, Adam seemed to have anticipated her tactics, sending another stroke of lightning against her. She managed to dance away from the attack, her swords tracing lines of magic in the air as she casted one of the spells Jory had taught her from some time back. The spell— _resist energy_ —took effect in a shower of bluish dust to settle around her before it disappeared.

She hoped it would last long enough to take down the traitorous werebeast.

The next arc of lightning landed squarely on her but fizzled in wisps of burnt ozone as the protective spell absorbed its damage. Seeing this, Adam roared in disbelief. Adria did not waste her chance, she lunged with her blades flashing.

Now on more or less even keel, her blades danced across the haft of the mace that Adam brought to block her initial attack. He flung out his damaged arm, his fingers sprouting talons as it whipped towards her throat. Adria’s quickly erected a shield deflected the attack. She turned it against him in a shield-bashing technique. A slash from her silversheen-bathed blade scored a deep thrust against his torso near the left kidney. The werebeast retaliated by butting his head against her chest. His hand whipped out to grasp the wrist of the hand holding the deadly weapon. She formed a telekinetic bubble around her hand to prise his grip away but it cracked and shattered as it went against the force his grip exerted. His other hand brought the mace up and Adria gathered all her strength to wrest it telekinetically away from his grip.

The wrestling between her will, anchoring her telekinesis, and his physical strength strained the metal haft of the mace. The creaking sound of metal bent against it mould sheared through the stand of trees, deafening against the black expanse of the night. There was a spark when the metal haft of the mace gave way to the forces trying to wrest it—one who sought to retain, one seeking to disarm.

_Everyone_ knows what happens to a magical, energy-discharging weapon when it was broken.

The eruption of the electrical energy flung the two opponents twenty feet away from where they originally stood.

Seconds passed.

Adria shook her head, clearing it. She tried to shift from the tree—again?—she was leaning against. A lance of pain from her left side sent waves of nausea over her. She looked down, grimacing at the length of broken branch that had pierced through. A grunt and heavy rustle of movement snapped her to attention. The movement brought stars exploding in her head, rendering her dizzy as she sought to right herself. Adam had managed to regain his feet. He was limping, his wings dragged brokenly behind him. The trailing feathers flagged uselessly as he grunted with the effort. She heard little snaps of bones breaking and resetting as his fast healing started to repair the damaged limbs. He caught sight of her and advanced in her direction.

Adria centred herself, trying to bring her concentration together to form a protective bubble. The power was there within her but it was scattered, the edges slipping through like quicksilver as she grasped at them. The protective bubble wavered before dissipating. She casted about for a weapon. Her sliversheen-coated sword lay not teen feet away from her, amongst the brush.

Adam had reached her, the werebeast looming in front of her. His pained smirk telegraphed how amusing a predicament he had found her in. He bent slightly, his undamaged hand with talons emerging slowly from his fingers as he grabbed her around the neck. She managed to create a telekinetic sheath around throat and upper torso, but it steadily gave before his strength. The pressure against her throat began to cut off the air. Her hands scrabbled against his as she attempted to break his grip, when her glance landed on her arm.

At the row of silver razor-discs still attached to her right forearm.

She spat at him, calculatingly depending on his temper to play into her hand. He did not disappoint. His grip tightened. Not enough to snap her neck, but enough to maintain his grip as he wrenched her forward towards him. She let out a cry as the broken branch impaling her exited her body with a sickening squelching sound. She felt light-headed for a moment but her purpose crystallised once she realised she was free.

“I hope you don’t mind, old friend,” Adam growled, his canines clicking as he spoke. “I am feeling a mite peckish.” He paused, smacking his lips as he observed her. “It is nothing personal, you understand. I am damaged and your life-force, power and skills would sustain me.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she hissed, as she quickly formed a shard of telekinetic energy in her left hand, bringing it overhead to stab at him.

He was quicker than expected, catching the arm and wrenching it overhead. The movement jarred her side, making her grunt aloud in pain. There was a distant sound similar to dry twigs breaking, a few seconds before she realized he had broken her arm. Waves of pain roared in her mind, making her cry out in spite of herself. The telekinetic shard in her hand fizzled as the agonizing hurt broke her concentration.

“How rude,” Adam remarked, his face wreathed in a mocking grin. He opened his mouth, his canines lengthening as he leaned forward towards her throat. “I am going to enjoy this,” he said with a small laugh.

She held him at bay, bracing her left arm against his throat and looking him in the eye. “So will I,” she shot back.

“What—?” he started before it ended in a gurgle when she turned her arm so its side is against the skin of his throat. She brought the sharp edges of the razor-discs to slash at his throat.

He did not let go of her throat or his other hold on her hand however, his rage coalescing in his intent to crush the life out of her by breaking through her protective sheath and snapping her neck. Forming claws of telekinetic energy around her left hand, she met his open-mouthed lunge and dragged them across his face.

Half-blinded by her attack, he roared and slammed her against the ground. There was a sound of ripping leather and broken bones and Adria felt her chest explode in blinding pain. A gurgle of blood erupted from her mouth as her form suddenly seemed to be rooted to the ground. She realised Adam had slammed her into the jutting branch that had impaled her in the side earlier. She could feel the blood pooling in the inner folds of her armour. Some were dripping from her back and around the length of wood buried in her back and around her chest.

“Bitch!” the werebeast cursed, flexing his taloned hand.

Knowing her strength was fast depleting, and that she was as good as dead Adria endeavoured to convey her disdain with a look of supreme satisfaction. The raven-haired mentalist did not reply, gathering the last of her strength for one final attack.

The sword she catapulted would have punched through a dragon’s hide. As it was, Adam was completely taken off-guard by the attack. The crunching sound made by the sword as it speared its two-foot blade from the back of his head to emerge through the middle of his face dominated the silence of the night.

The werebeast remained standing for several seconds, his body not fully registering the fatal blow that had claimed his life. Finally, the maddened glint in his eyes faded as life deserted him and he collapsed to the ground. As her vision grew dim, her thoughts went to her friends.

The statuesque Mentalist Prime. The tempestuous Lord of Shadivari. The angelic Maiden of the Witches.

_I’m sorry I failed you, Chris,_ was her last thought before everything faded to black.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel that Christabel as a character has come into her own, and I have further plans to use her in later stories.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is hidden brought to the open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for your patience. Have at it! :-)

Christabel was feeling uneasy. Adria has not checked in with her for their usual updates session. Granted, it was not the first time her right-hand woman has gone incommunicado but after the suspicion that there was a traitor—or even worse, a spy—in their midst, she had mandated the other woman to check in daily.

Christabel trusted Adria implicitly. The raven-haired mentalist had allowed herself to undergo a thorough scan of her mind, confident that she was in the clear as to where her purpose and loyalties lie. And she was deserving of the trust, having repaid them several times over with exemplary service and candid advice. Their bond had transcended beyond that of liege and vassal. There was an accord and an amity between them, as both friends and peers.

The blonde fey went to her favourite armchair in the library, seating herself and slipped her mind into the Astral Plane.

A momentary sensation of displacement sent a warning spike of alarm through her. The Astral Plane was in turmoil, the feathery presence of hundreds of telepaths colliding into one another. A feeling of dread took hold of her. This only happens when a telepath dies violently, their minds fracturing as their passing telegraphed itself through their passive link to the Astral Plane. The more powerful the telepath, the stronger the dissonance caused.

_No,_ she thought to herself. She steeled herself against the possibility of such dark thoughts and went to track Adria’s unique mental presence.

There were faint traces of the other mentalist’s presence. It was laced with a strong undertone of urgency. _Danger_ , it warned.

Christabel traced the alarm to its source. It was some fair distance from her lodge, near the cliffs some five miles due west. Using the Astral Plane as an extension, she expanded the usual reach of her telepathic powers to project her consciousness to the last location Adria had been.

Nothing.

A feeling of dread gripped her. She got to her feet and marched out of the library, unheeding of the slamming doors behind her. She had just finished sending a quick word to Harald mentally to ready her horse when Steve’s head poked out from the door of the bedroom she had allotted to Jory.

“Is there something wrong?” the man asked.

“Adria did not check in with me today,” she answered crisply. She made her way to the stairs, tossing him another reply. “Last place I sensed her was the cliffs west of here.”

“You want us to come with you?” he offered.

She paused on the bottom landing, weighing the offer. Wisdom decided her to accept it. “That will be appreciated.”

“Nat, Clint, Victor!” Steve yelled. “Sorry,” he said to Christabel, noting the mentalist’s slight wince.

She waved the apology away, taking the opportunity to inform Harald via her telepathy that there will be four more people joining.

Thor and Loki had appeared from the direction of the kitchen. The blonde God of Thunder had a sandwich in his hand.

“Dost thou require mine or my brother’s presence, Steven?” Thor asked.

“No,” Steve decided. “I need you and Loki to stay here.”

Loki nodded. He turned to Christabel. “You had best link your mind to mine. Should you require aid I can teleport the rest to your location.”

“Done,” the mentalist said, after a second had passed.

“If that happens,” Steve added. “Bring Pietro, Wanda, Cargill and Hank with you. Thor, I need you and Rogue to stay with Jory.”

“If something happens to us,” Christabel warned. “Bring her to Hanalee and the rest of the covens.”

Thor nodded solemnly. “The Witch Maiden will be safe with us,” he promised. “Thou must to horse, then.”

The horses were saddled and ready when they reached the stable located behind her lodge. Harald was already on his pony, dressed in a chainmail shirt. His warhammer rested comfortably in his hands.

They left at a trot. Christabel and Harald took point. Steve and Natasha followed behind while Clint and Victor brought up the rear.

“Do you think something has happened to Adria?” Harald asked the mentalist in his quiet voice.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “And that terrifies me. The Astral Plane was in turmoil, Harald.”

Harald’s face grew troubled at the last sentence. “You think she is …?” he trailed off.

“Not until I see it with my own eyes,” she stated grimly. The dwarrow reached with one hand and clasped hers.

Christabel sighed. She turned to the others trailing behind her. “What say we pick up the pace?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Can Harald keep up?”

The dwarrow roared in laughter. “For certain, Lady Firehair,” he returned with a broad wink. He had taken to giving her the honorific earlier in the day, much to the others’ amusement. Natasha, for her part, had accepted the appellation with good grace. Especially as she had learned that dwarrow females were accorded equal status among their male peers.

“Enchanted hooves,” Christabel answered. “Grants extra speed.”

“Well now,” Steve joined in with a small grin. “Why don’t we pick up the pace then?”

From their positions behind him, Victor and Clint agreed.

They urged the horse into a gallop. Christabel felt the rush of adrenaline and exultation in the physical exertion from her company in her mind as the wind rushed against her face. It occurred to her that it had been a long time since she had felt this kind of exhilaration.

It was ironic, she thought to herself, such feeling should be brought out by the mounting concern for her missing friends.

Arden is missing. Despite Jory’s belief that the shadowfey lord could be brought back, his fracturing sanity returned, Christabel was not so optimistic. The shadowfey had always been a wild card. He often acts alone, preferring to strike like a cobra unleashed among the chickens. Christabel was of the opinion—a closely guarded one, as she did not relish an argument with Jory—that the shadowfey nursed a death-wish. That a life so long lived without a companion to act as a balm to his tortured existence had now become unbearable. Oh, Arden will wax poetic that it was a moment of weakness but Christabel was not just a telepath. Her psychometric talents had picked up several hints of acute depression and a sense of loss from the other fey. It was only recently that he seemed to have rallied his faculties. She strongly suspected a certain blonde mutant had contributed to this newfound sense of lightness in Arden’s outlook.

Adria’s silence was a constant burr in the fabric of her thoughts. The assassin—Christabel was honest enough with herself that she acknowledged Adria’s role in their organization as such—was a strict, regimented person. With only five exceptional cases, the raven-haired telepath had never missed checking in throughout her years of service. That something managed to silence her sent a twinge of dread down her spine.

Close to half an hour later, they slowed down to a trot. The horizon appeared crisp and stark against the copse less than half a mile out. The edge off the cliffs could be seen beyond the stand of trees, marking the western edge of the floating island.

“Spread out,” Christabel said, tethering her horse to a lone pine.

Steve nodded. He directed Natasha and Victor towards the left, while Clint and he took the right. Christabel and Harald retained the central section.

As they progressed further into the copse, tell-tale signs of a furious battled leapt out at them. The broken branches. Splinters and singe marks. A felled tree. Loose feathers from what must have been a raptor of enormous size.

A cry of dismay from Victor drew them towards him. The large blonde had gone down on his knees; before him in repose, was a figure in black leathers. Not too far away, another figure in a banded armour lay.

_It can’t be …_ Steve thought, feeling a chill seep in his bones.

He was next to Victor’s side several seconds before Natasha and the others arrived.

Adria’s face was mottled with bruises, her throat bearing a patchwork of the same discolouration. A length of branch had speared through the left side of her chest, missing where the heart by two inches. A similar wound was found lower on her torso. Her right arm appeared to be broken, from the angle it laid in. Incongruent with the damage her body had undergone, her expression was one of gentle regret. It was as if whatever it was that had brought about her death the raven-haired mentalist had made peace with it, if not the events that sparked it.

Steve looked over at the other figure, taking in the breadth of golden wings, banded armour and harness that identified it as possibly Adam. He could not really tell for sure what with the two-foot length of blade that emerged from the face. Dry, flaky skin stretched taut across his bones. It was as if the body had undergone a mummification process.

Christabel crouched next to Victor. She laid a trembling hand on Adria’s forehead, gently. There was a slight start to her before she threw her head back in silent anguish.

All of them did not expect the maelstrom of rage and pain that suddenly roiled across them. Christabel’s psychometry and telepathy combined had attempted to reconstruct the course of events as they had occurred. The sheer violence and madness that lingered across the clearing however took the mentalist by surprise before she exerted her iron will over the roiling bubble of errant psychic residue permeating the area.

“That was unpleasant,” Harald offered easily. He did not seem affected much by the psychic feedback. “Racial trait,” Harald explained. “Dwarves are resistant to psychic intrusion.”

“Must be handy,” Clint quipped.

Steve was about to castigate the archer’s flippancy but the tightening around the other man’s eyes stilled him. Steve himself could taste bile at the back of his throat. God alone knows what it must have felt for the others. What it must have been like for Christabel.

They fey shrugged away Victor’s hand from where they had rested on her shoulder. “I am fine,” she snapped.

Tendrils of azure mists threaded their way up from the ground. They snaked their way across the clearing, coating the trees and shrubbery around them as it advanced. At places where the brush had been disturbed or fallen during the battle earlier, the tendrils formed into facsimiles of their former undisturbed placements. Once it seemed that the reconstruction had been complete, the azure-tinged manifestations started coming alive.

_They saw Adria skating along her telekinetic slide. The raven-haired mentalist seemed to be peering at the sky, looking for something. There was a tautness in her face. The face of a person steeling herself for an unpleasant undertaking. Her form seemed to waver slightly before splitting into two. Once the duplicate had separated itself, the raven-haired mentalist sequestered herself among a stand of firs. Her duplicate went in the opposite direction, towards a large spruce not fifteen metres from Steve’s right._

_Adam soon approached the clearing, coming from the estimated direction that the mentalist had been peering at. The werebeast seemed to be looking for something before Adria’s duplicate emerged from her concealment._

_There were words exchanged._

Terse ones, if Steve were to go with Adam’s expression. A hiss from Natasha made him glance at her.

“Watch his hands,” she murmured.

_They saw the werebeast swung his mace. The rest of the fight unfolded before them. It was ferocious._

A gasp came from Christabel. The unfolding scene stilled their motion as she commanded it to freeze. The moment of suspended animation had caught Adam in mid-lunge, his face snarling.

“Are those fangs?” Clint asked, pointing at the werebeast’s frozen facsimile.

“Yes,” the blonde fey answered, her voice faint.

“Whampiri,” Harald muttered.

Christabel waved him to silence, letting the azure-tinged reconstruction play itself.

_The explosion of the mace. Adria and Adam hurled by the expanding coruscating force released by the broken weapon. Adria impaled onto the branch. Adam going in for the kill. Adria’s killing stroke._

The reconstructed tableau faded after several seconds.

For several moments, no one moved. No one said a word.

Harald was the first one to break the stillness. He marched forward towards what had been Adam and spat squarely on the werebeast’s desiccated remains. He let loose several strings of phrases in the dwarven tongue. Phrases that, even though he could not understand them, still made Steve flinch at their vitriolic tone. The dwarrow drew his right foot back, about to deliver a kick to the werebeast’s remains before Christabel’s voice made him stop.

“No!” the mentalist cried out. “We need him whole.”

Harald’s face darkened.

“His undisturbed remains could still tell us much,” she answered, mollifying him.

Harald glared at her. The mentalist held his stare before he broke it, turning away from them and stalked off towards the horses, muttering still more choice epithets in the dwarven tongue.

“Is he going to be alright?” Victor asked.

“Eventually,” Christabel answered him. She sighed. “Adria and he were quite close.”

“You are going to use magic on this?” Natasha asked the blonde, motioning towards the werebeast’s form. “You said his remains needs to be undisturbed, so how are we supposed to move him?”

“And what made him go all mummified?” Clint asked. “Is that a werebeast thing?”

“No, it is not,” Christabel said, a measuring look on her face. “I suspect our werebeast have been holding out on us.”

“That can be tabled for another time,” Steve said. “So, how do we go about moving him?”

Harald had returned, clutching a small scroll in his hand. He passed it wordlessly to Christabel.

“It’s a spell called _gentle repose_ ,” the mentalist explained aloud to them. “It places the body in stasis.”

The blonde fey unrolled the scroll. She casted the spell on both Adria and Adam’s remains. Victor and Clint had taken off their cloak and gently wrapped the raven-haired mentalist’s body in their folds once the spell was casted. Steve and Natasha handled Adam’s remains. No one said a word during the grim chore. Steve glanced at Natasha. Her face was blank, her expression closed off. Steve let out a small sigh.

“It’s all going downhill, isn’t it?” he asked her.

“There is a strong indication that these Light feys have been compromised,” Natasha agreed.

“How badly do you think?”

“Considering the fact that Adam was privy to most, if not all, of the knowledge held by Christabel, Jory and Arden? I would say it’s very bad.”

Victor had joined them, having caught the tail-end of their discussion. “Makes you feel grateful the witches are so damned secretive, doesn’t it?” he noted. He nodded towards the receding figure of Christabel and Harald. Clint was nearby, Adria’s body cradled in his arms. He nodded towards Adam’s wrapped remains. “We’re ready to go. You want me to take him?”

Steve waved him off. “I got it,” he said. He hefted the werebeast’s body over his shoulder and motioned them onwards with a tilt of his chin. “Come on,” he said.

Within minutes, the clearing within the copse was empty.

  
  
* * *  


Thor glanced at Loki. The God of Mischief was frowning at the spread of parchments and scrolls on the wide table before him. The focused single-mindedness he carried as he went throughout the task of deciphering the mystery behind the ritual of the forbiddance had at first concerned the blonde god.

Loki had always been intense in his dedication. Especially when planning stratagems that would incite strife or mischief. This, however, had been mixed with something Thor could not quite place. Oh, the intense dedication had still been the same. There was a touch of difference to it this time. A certain … despondency, if Thor had not known better.

As if on cue, Loki let out a small snarl of frustration.

Thor looked up from the tome he had been leafing through. Hank and Cargill exchanged a look between them. The four of them had been scouring the entirety of Christabel’s library looking for further clues behind the ritual of the forbiddance.

“What troubles thou, brother?” he asked, walking towards Loki.

“These prophecies sound more like the garbled ramblings of madmen!” Loki huffed.

“Prophecies often are,” Thor commented.

Loki glared at him.

Thor held up his hands, placating. “Peace, Loki,” Thor said with a small smile. “Glaring at me like a basilisk wouldst not make sense of yon ramblings.” He patted Loki’s shoulder. “One wouldst say that you carry some small affection for the Witch Maiden.”

Loki blushed. “It is nothing like that,” he sniffed, shrugging Thor’s hand away. “She granted me grace and mercy. I am simply repaying her kindness.”

Thor nodded, knowing Loki well enough to leave it alone for now. He picked up one of the parchments. It was the same one that he had read aloud several days before. He did a quick scan of the scattered mess of scrolls and parchments on the table, looking for the same phrases that had niggled at the back of his mind ever since he had read the parchment aloud.

“What are you doing?” Loki asked him when Thor started re-arranging the scrolls and parchments in groups.

He stepped away from the table, nodding to himself before turning to Loki with a smile that was almost beatific. “I believe I have come to an answer to the riddle.”

 

  
* * *  


Jory smiled gently at Wanda, hiding the slight exasperation she felt.

“I am fine, Wanda,” she told the other woman. “I assure you.”

Rogue shook her head. “I’m sorry, sugar,” the woman’s Southern accent was laced with concern. “Steve asked us to stick like glue to you, and I’m not going to disappoint your boyfriend.”

“He is _not_ my boyfriend!” Jory protested mildly, even as she felt herself blushing.

Rogue’s look of smug triumph at the blush was pointed.

Wanda tilted her head, her mahogany curls bouncing with the movement. “What is he, then?” she asked. At Jory’s widened eyes, she put a reassuring arm on the witch. “I ask because it is obvious that he likes you.”

“And you like him,” Rogue added.

“Unless,” Wanda continued, gracing Rogue with a warning glance, “You happen to like a certain raven-haired trickster?”

Jory frowned. “I am quite certain that our relationship is purely one as a mentor and her student,” the witch said firmly.

“He _is_ good-looking,” Rogue pointed out. “And you are both magical beings.”

“Looks aren’t everything,” Jory said dismissively. “And we can’t help being what we are.”

Wanda’s eyebrows rose sceptically.

“My friends are telepaths who can tell me your darkest secrets and fears, a werebeast who turns into a giant eagle, and a genderless shapeshifting elemental who identifies as male,” Jory pointed out. “Physical beauty is superfluous, as far as I am concerned.”

“She’s got a point there,” Rogue agreed.

Jory picked up her cup of tea, her lips smiling as she took a small sip. “I will confess,” she admitted. “Both are incredibly good-looking specimens of manhood.”

 Rogue and Wanda looked surprised at her candid admission.

“Oh, do not tell me you have not looked at that sun-kissed blonde hair and summer-sky blue eyes without a small sigh of appreciation,” Jory countered. “Or the aristocratic mien and flashing green eyes when he delivers a sarcastic sally.” She paused, smiling into her teacup. “Even Chris will admit to checking out Steve’s derriere.”

Rogue looked away, blushing slightly.

Wanda let out a small giggle. “I’m not sure which one I find weirder,” she said. “The fact that we’re dishing about Cap and Loki, or the fact that you’re doing in such a clinical fashion.”

“Or that you used _derriere_ to refer to Cap’s butt!” Rogue added with a grin.

A small cough from the direction of the doorway stilled the three of them into silence. A second later, Loki appeared at the doorway. He did not say anything and for a moment Rogue allowed herself to think that he did not manage to catch the tail-end of their conversation; she did not feel up to the task of being mortified should Cap got wind of it.

His slightly raised eyebrow, and the slightly impish glint in his eyes quickly disabused her of that notion.

“My brother asked if you would like to join us for lunch,” the raven-haired demigod said.

Jory, always gracious, rose quickly from her seat. “Of course we would be delighted,” she said with a warm smile. The witch laid her hand on Loki’s offered arm and exited the room with Wanda and Rogue trailing behind.

The two women traded a look as they made their way down the hall towards the stairs. A young mentalist male nodded at them as he passed by, informing them that lunch is ready in the dining room.

Thor was already waiting for them, along with Hank and Cargill. The ebony-skinned Amazon was piling her plate with several juicy cuts of roasted duck, as she traded playful asides with the other men.

“Join us, friends,” Thor’s voice boomed across the room upon catching sight of them.

“Thor found a possible answer to the riddle behind the forbiddance,” Hank said in his cultured voice as they sat themselves.

Jory glanced sharply at Thor. Her eyes were wide with relief. “What have you found?”

“I looked at the way the forbiddance was described and instead of looking for a semblance of sense in the texts, I decided to look for an overall pattern.”

“Of course,” Jory nodded in understanding. “You were leveraged on your abilities as a flier and seek to see the puzzle as a whole, instead of its composite pieces.”

“I noticed that there was one glaring omission, never stated in the texts,” Thor agreed. “Hank and Cargill confirmed it. Loki went through them one more time to verify our findings.”

“And what did you find?” Wanda asked impatiently.

“Or what did you _not_ find, for that matter,” Rogue added.

Thor rose, nibbling delicately on a thigh of a duck. “Pretend this delicious morsel as the world that you originally inhabited,” he said, waving the thigh around.

Cargill snickered, quieting herself after a pointed glance from Hank.

Thor stripped away a strip of flesh, as if Cargill’s small interruption had never happened. “Thine forefathers were wrested away and deposited into this alternate world,” he said continuing his speech. He tossed the piece of meat into his mouth, garnering a snort from Loki.

Jory smiled. Thor is the exact opposite of his adopted brother but Jory could see despite his earthy demeanour, the other god was just as intelligent if not somewhat singular in his novel approach. “And …?” she prompted.

“Art thine people possessed of enough power to wrest whole multitudes to place them here?” Thor asked, wiggling his greasy fingers.

Jory stilled. “No …” she breathed out, even as her mind reeled at the implication. Her mind started spooling back through the ancient lore of her people, trying to bring together the disparate lines of information to add to what she had just learned.

“It seems only fitting that some agency of divine source had some involvement in the process,” Loki surmised.

“Using that line of thought,” Hank continued Loki’s statement, “we have found that there are references to calling down these divine sources for aid in great magical working.”

“I think I can tell you the rest,” Jory said, finally rallying from her shock. “The divine sources come from what we Ilmari call the Shining Ones, archfeys who have advanced beyond mere mortal existence and achieved apotheosis.”

“And you know who they are?” Cargill asked.

“All Ilmari know them, or of them,” Jory confirmed with a nod. “Selene is the patroness of the spellweavers, Rahu the Dark holds the allegiance of the shadowfeys and Shakti the Lady of Sorcery is the chief of all the silvarenn.”

“There would be more, I gather,” Hank said in his quiet voice.

“Five instruments,” Loki mused aloud. “That would mean five gods.”

“Six,” Jory corrected. “To balance the working between chaos and order, and anchor its power.”

Loki nodded at her before his face ended up scrunched in pain. He gasped as he doubled over in his chair, knocking over his glass of water as he went down.

“Brother!” Thor thundered, vaulting over the table and landing lightly—despite his large frame—next to the other god.

Loki batted Thor’s questing hands away. “I am fine,” he said with a grimace. “I felt a wash of psychic feedback from the link our host established earlier.”

Cargill stood up. “Are they okay?” she asked.

“They are unharmed,” Loki said. His eyes flickered quickly to Jory but averted themselves before the others could see the quick worried glance he had flashed towards the witch. “They will be back soon.”

Jory nodded. Her blood turned chill at the thought of what Loki may have captured from the link he shared with Christabel. She had caught the look the god had thrown towards her. It was filled with sorrow.

Something had happened to Adria.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plots and counterplots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. Real-life got in the way ... you know how it is.  
> As always, I welcome kudos, comments and whatnots.

Something had happened to Adria.

Jory knew it to be true. The raven-haired mentalist have been rather inconspicuous in her absence, especially from Jory’s memory of her as a watchful presence ten feet to the left and behind Christabel. Her occasional absences were rarely remarked upon by others in their circle, as if her assignments were of such clandestine nature that it would offend the sensibilities of the Witch Maiden.

“Adria’s dead,” she whispered softly to herself.

Hank’s head whipped towards her. “Pardon?” he asked.

Jory shook her head, throwing him a sombre smile as she did so. She left her station at the table where she had stood up in alarm when Loki had keeled over from the psychic feedback he had experienced through the link shared with Christabel.

Wanda and Rogue had glanced at her as she stepped away, but she motioned them to attend to Loki.

She stepped away from the dining room, her steps sure, silent, and most of all quick as she made her way back to the room. She knew she would not have long. They had given her enough information for her brilliant mind to arrive to the answer she needs.

Instrument of destiny she may be, but it will be on her terms and not as a puppet hanging from strings drawn by those long past dead.

She could already hear movements and steps coming from the landing and up from the stairs. A quick flick of her fingers sent the door shut and barred. Another murmured word reinforced it with the resilience of dragon-hide. She touched one of the diamonds on her necklace; a spell storing gem that activated one of her signature spells—cocooning her last two spell effects with a cloaking of resistance much like her personal one.

_Enough blood has been spilled if Adria is dead,_ she thought grimly.

She reached underneath her bed and hoisted the small pack and her katana over her shoulders. Underneath her dress, she was already wearing a thin tunic and soft breeches and ankle boots.

Thudding on the door. Cries calling her name aloud.

_Selene grant me strength,_ she thought as she completed the teleportation spell.

  

* * *

 

Loki stood waiting in front of the open door, watching Christabel’s arrival. The blonde fey had arrived ahead of the others, her hair having come undone from her chignon. She must have galloped ahead of the others. Loki’s sharp eyes detected the red hair of the Black Widow on her own horse as the woman trailed approximately several hundred yards behind the mentalist.

“Adria’s dead,” Christabel said as he dismounted gracefully to land in front of him.

“I gathered as much, from the psychic feedback,” Loki said with a nod towards the house. “Jorinda had barricaded herself in her room.”

“No, she’s not,” Christabel disagreed after a second. “She’s gone.”

“How could you tell? I thought she was impervious to your mind probes.”

“I don’t need to scan for her,” the fey answered. “Just for a mental void that would have been her presence.”

“A reverse approach,” Loki noted, admiration in his eyes.

“Elementary,” Christabel waved away the unspoken compliment. “We are in more trouble than we thought.”

Loki raised his eyebrows.

“Adam has betrayed us,” the mentalist announced. “I cannot discern how far his betrayal affects us …”

“And you had hoped Jorinda to help you with this,” Loki finished the sentence for her.

The blonde nodded. “I have an incantation in my library but it is quite beyond my skill.”

“Perhaps I could assist you with that,” Loki offered. “She had been teaching me about the Craft, and I am already an accomplished practitioner of the Art.”

The blonde looked at him steadily, her gaze assessing and direct for several long moments. “If this offer of yours helps in bringing back Arden, avenge my friend’s death and rebuild the forbiddance I swear as Mentalist Prime I am indebted to you,” she said, her voice low and serious.

“And should I betray you …?” Loki could not resist asking.

“Then even death will not keep you from my reach,” came Christabel’s vicious answer.

Loki held up his hands, palms up. “Peace, dear lady,” he placated the fey. “If Arden and Jorinda are examples of what horrors your kind could visit upon me, I would be a fool to abuse your goodwill.”

The blonde kept her assessing stare several moments longer, seemingly weighing his words. Satisfied at his answer, she nodded slowly. “Fair enough,” she murmured.

The Black Widow stopped her horse several yards from them, glancing at them before turning back to look at the others still a hundred yards away.

“We’ll meet you in the basement,” the redhead said, to Christabel’s mental direction.

 

  
* * *

 

 

Adam’s remains were arranged on the floor, within a circle of runes spelling out wards of containment and summoning. His mummified forehead was anointed with liquefied benzoin, it’s vanilla-like scent teasing—almost cruelly, it seems to Steve—them with the macabre irony of what they are about to attempt.

“We will be mind-linked,” Christabel said to Loki. She glanced around them. “All of us.”

Natasha’s eyebrows rose. “Is that really necessary?”

“If anything happens to any one of us, you want the rest to be able to carry on,” Victor stated quietly.

The blonde nodded. “Let us join hands,” she instructed. Loki was to her left, Clint on her right. Next to Clint was Victor, with Rogue, Thor, Wanda, Pietro, Natasha, Hank, Cargill and Steve arranged one after another—all of them forming a circle. Steve grasped Loki’s hand. He was surprised to feel a reassuring squeeze from the demigod.

“Loki,” Christabel’s voice came gently. “You may start.”

Loki nodded. He took a deep breath and started uttering words that even though Steve could not understand it, crackled with eldritch power. Steve’s skin broke into goose pimples as the temperature in the basement dropped several degrees. He could see his breath fogging in front of him.

His perspective changed suddenly. Steve could see himself still in the basement but now it is as if he is suspended in mid-air in the basement, looking down upon himself and his friends.

_What is going on?_ he wondered.

_You are in a hive mind now,_ came Christabel’s voice.

Steve looked around but could not see the mentalist, but he could detect a certain silvery glimmer in the air.

_Wow_ , came Rogue’s mental voice, even as the atmosphere accommodated the sunflower-yellow shade of her thoughts. _This must be what it felt like for the Cuckoos_.

Steve grinned in spite of himself. There is a sensation of weightlessness, that the cares of the material world seemed a distant, petty minutiae. He could feel a certain wistful amusement from Christabel as the argent glint of her thoughts wrapped theirs in links of thoughts that both anchored and protected them.

The joining of her mind to theirs let them see a glimpse of the other parts of her—before this hinted at but never outright displayed.

_The tentative courtship between her and Harald during the early years of her adulthood. Her remaining skittish and wary to the fervent adoration in the dwarrow’s eyes. The tragic realisation of their differing lifespans._

_The gruelling training spent in learning to wield her psychic gifts as both tool of governance and deadly weapon._

_Her constant roving between the two worlds, seeking out allies and rogue feys._

_The minds of hundreds of mentalists, all linked to her—whether directly or not. The information and tireless network maintained and secured to ensure survival of the Light._

_Her bonded oath when the Council nominated her to work closely with the representatives of the other ruling houses._

_The guarded respect and wariness she reserved for Arden. The admiration she had for Jorinda. The camaraderie between her and the raven-haired Adria. Her grief at the latter’s violent death._

Steve winced at the image of the raven-haired mentalist’s death.

Loki’s voice swelled to a crescendo as he completed the incantation. The lights in the basement had dimmed to mere pinpricks of lights, each one weaker than a candle flame. Even the glowing braziers in the corners of the room had dulled their crimson shine, leaving the basement cold and shadowed.

Illumination returned gradually, joined by a spectral chorus of eerie voices.

_From beyond the narrow path I call thee back,_ came Loki’s voice in their minds. The summoning crackled with barely-held power. _Through the mist of years I call thee back. Through the veils of worlds I summon thee. Come speedily, readily and without delay!_

The spectral voices died out, fading away with a sigh. The embers in the braziers sparked and caught aflame, reignited and bathing the basement with a slow warmth as they filled the space with their pale russet glow.

_Why have you summoned me?_ the question was asked, the sepulchral voice filling the basement.

“You are not Adam,” Christabel stated flatly.

_Adam El Maliki have departed the mortal coil twelve rains since_ , the voice was almost gleeful, gloating at the fact. _I have been moving as him, unknown and unsuspecting to all._

“And who are you?” the mentalist asked.

_Names are of no moment …_

“I will have your name!” Christabel snapped, even as Steve felt the clenching of her will. Their joined minds felt the spark of power travelling through unseen synapses, the faint taste of electricity at the back of his throat as dozens of what felt like the psychic equivalent of barbed wires wrapped themselves around the resurrected spirit.

_Abbas Al-Jabbar!_ the voice snarled. The air shivered with his fury at being ignobly humbled by the mentalist.

“Abbas Al-Jabbar died during the Siege of Harakan two hundred and fifty-six years ago,” Christabel retorted, an eyebrow raised. “He was survived by his sons Sa’id and Thaqif, and their children.”

_My twin-borns,_ the voice agreed.

“So you are Adam’s great-grandfather,” the mentalist stated. “How did you end up in your grandson’s form?”

_Wouldn’t you like to know, my little mindwitch._

The air shivered again as Christabel wrapped the psychic chains around the disembodied spirit. The cry of pain was like nails across a chalkboard.

_Enough!_ it cried. _You have proven that you can hurt me. I will speak._

“Then do so, speedily,” Loki snapped, joining in the conversation. “And I will release you.”

_Careful, godling,_ the spirit retorted. _You do not know the forces you are arrayed against._

Loki rolled his eyes theatrically. “Enlighten me, then. Norns know you wanted to.”

Steve almost snickered at the supercilious air Loki had affected—it was much like his old behaviour when they were first introduced as adversaries.

_I did not die at Harakan. Or rather, my body did. My sprit lived on … thanks to Lorien._

“You struck a deal with him,” Christabel whispered.

_I will aid him in undermining the Light, let the forbiddance fall into ruins. And he granted me the dark gift, to separate my spirit from my shell. I subsumed my son Thaqif’s spirit, tore it away from his body and inhabited his shell as if it was my own. Then his son Malik, and in turn his son Adam._

“And in return for what?”

_The old ways._

“You will seek to bring back our kind to the Material Plane.”

_To be masters of the world that had forgotten our existence_.

“You know the Light will not stand for it!”

_Once the forbiddance is destroyed, it is a moot point. You are missing the scions of the original houses. The current crop are of diluted blood, carefully winnowed and planned throughout the ages. Even my great-grandson was not a pureblood! His mother a witch slut!_

“Not the Witch Maiden and the Lord of Shadivari,” Christabel pointed out.

_And where are they now, pray tell? The Wytchdottir has lost her purpose, like a petal on the wind. The Shadowlord is lost in the madness of his ancestral memories! You have no more counters to move, mindwitch. All your planning have been in vain!_

Christabel laughed. _Be ready,_ she warned them through the mindlink. “Did you honestly think that I did not prepare for a spy in our midst? There was a reason that Adria did not let herself be taken—she was the only one privy to most of the plans.”

_You have fed me lies?!?_

“Oh, don’t be so disappointed,” Christabel consoled him, her tone sarcastic. “I had to give you something to report to Lorien.”

_You still would seek to rebuild the forbiddance? You lack the components._

“True, but I still have the incantation and the formula. And the spellweavers stand with the Light still.”

_You will doom us all!_

“I believe some would call it a sacrifice,” Christabel replied with a smile.

_NO! I will not allow it!_

The spirit roiled and bucked against the hold of the summoning spell, trying to break through the eldritch fetters.

_I will feast on your mind, bitch!_

“Now!” Christabel cried.

Loki wove his fingers in the air, tracing trails of emerald energy as he moved from one rune to the next. The runes hung in the air for a second, then slowly circled the bound spirit. The mentalist and the demigod clenched their wills, drawing the spell tight and wrapping the spirit with the net of runes.

_Now, Wanda!_ The command reverberated through the mindlink.

The Scarlet Witch focused on the chaos energies coursing through her body, her mind cleared into crystal-clear focus by Christabel’s power. She knew what the mentalist wanted her to do. She channelled the chaos energies into one of the most complicated hexes she had ever casted, binding the runes to both this realm and to her soul. The ribbons of chaos energies split into three, dispersing between herself, the mentalist and Loki before fading away in mists of ruby-tinged wisps.

On the floor, where the Adam’s body lay, a small black gem sat glimmering on his chest.

“What was that?” Wanda asked.

“We bound him to the spirit world, and he can only be released when you, Loki and I recite the incantation togather, while we are within the boundaries of the Feywilds.

Wanda smirked. “He is not going to be happy when he is released.”

“I have no intention of doing so,” Christabel refuted. “He is a _whampiri_ now, a sentient spirit that can subsumed other creatures’ life-force and prolong his existence. Subsumption grants him the victim’s memories and abilities. The more powerful they are …”

“The longer he can retain them,” Rogue finished.

Christabel raised her eyebrow, noting the faint pallor in the brunette’s face. “Yes, I gather you have an idea of what that would be like.”

Rogue’s grimace was her only reply.

“So what do we do now?” Victor asked.

“We meet with the spellweaver coven on the island of Altar,” Christabel answered. “Hanalee has been preparing her coven to help us.”

“What about Jory?” Steve asked.

“She will do what needs to be done,” Christabel answered cryptically.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witch Maiden and the Lord of Shadivari duke it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are nods to works that have inspired and influenced me.
> 
> Almost at the end, guys. Stay with me.
> 
> xoxoxo

Jorinda looked around her. The terrain told her that she was on the Ceredion, still within the Arboreal Islands. The rocky ground was strewn with pitted granite and shale, being the harshest of the four. Forbidding cliffs rose around her, sea birds cawing as they roosted in their nests dotting the cliffs.

Her spell had brought her here. Traces of Arden’s life-force lingered in the air, the soulstone she wore on her necklace faintly thrumming as it resonated with the etheric vibrations the shadowfey’s magical aura.

“Arden Ciarr!” she shouted aloud. “I know you are here. Show yourself!”

Only silence greeted her. She was not expecting any response, at any rate. If hostile, Arden prefers to strike with no warning, using his ability to meld in and out of shadows to confuse and harry his opponents.

As if her musing summoned him, a flare of black flame sparked in front of her. The small conflagration coalesced into a steady flame, snaking around to encircle her. The flames themselves were not high, but with a width of fifteen feet she knew she could not clear it with a standing jump penned as she was. The flames did not exude heat, but gave off a bitter chill. A slow chill that is slowly seeping through her body. Jorinda knew that most dismissed the _black fire_ as a paltry spell but they forgot that while the flames did not give off heat they absorbed it instead—and turned anything they touch frostbitten. Frostbitten, cold constructs that can be commanded and animated by a master of the Void.

She flicked her fingers, releasing one of the contingencies she had always kept ready. She did not bother dispelling the _black fire_ as Arden will just replenish the spell. The contingency spell she released surrounded her in azure and white coloured mist for a second before dispersing—a combination of protections from both cold and electrical energies.

A tremor from the ground below gave a split-second warning and she activated her magical boots— _boots of the sky—_ letting her arrow up and away from the ground that had just turned into a quagmire.

_It must be one of the abilities from his ancestral memories!_ she thought, not recognising this as one of Arden’s many repertoire.

Arden materialised to her left, barely unrecognizable now as he gave himself over to the tumultuous chaos of his ancestral memories. His now chalk-white skin was stretched across lean muscles streaked with black skin markings—like the dappling effect of a snow tiger’s coat. His eyes were completely black pools of unfathomable darkness, reflecting the source of his powers. The Plane of Shadow. Reflecting the Void.

 He unleashed several bolts of back arrows before disappearing. Jorinda knew that those deadly bolts are conjured aspects of the Plane of Shadow and therefore could bypass her spell resistance. She deflected them with a quickened spell of protection. The bolts shattered against her shield, dissipating into shadowy mists.

She attuned herself to the minute vibrations within the Weave, paying attention to the Void between them, as that is where the source of Arden’s powers came from. A dull thrum drew her attention fifty metres to the right and on the physical world, Arden melded into sight as he zipped towards her—flying by folding himself in and out of existence.

Jory flew up higher, drawing him towards her. She waited, watching for the splintering of his form as he folded himself back into this dimension. Once he was near enough to be within range, she activated one of the spells she had kept dormant—only awaiting the activation command—on one of the diamonds she wore on her necklace.

The _dimensional anchor_ that enfolded Arden in its viper-green energy dispelled his improvised flying. Arden dropped several feet down before wings of black smoke unfurled from his back and held him aloft.

At least now Arden won’t be popping in and out around her. She knew that Arden will try to balance the odds by summoning creatures to engage her while attack from a distance. She prepared her move, watching for the telltale gesture of his hands should he do so.

She was rewarded when he made a circular gesture, his fingers delicately tracing a pattern in the air before him. Several tendrils of black mists appeared to his right, solidifying into a gigantic humanoid shape approximately ten feet tall. A _summoned elemental_ from the Plane of Shadow. Jorinda flew several feet to her right, her hands moving into a spell that _dismissed_ the _summoned_ creature back to its home plane.

Arden’s growl of frustration was voluble, as was the string of curses he uttered in Ilmari. He retaliated by pulling down bolts of lightning down from the clear sky. She dodged and weaved around each bolt of lightning; knowing though she was protected from the electrical charges, the protection was not finite. The spell will absorb each blast before it reached its capped limit. Due to her proficiency and skill level, she knew she could withstand several barrages before the spell exhausted its protection. As it was, an unseen bolt caught her, sending her careening before the magical boots stilled her in mid-air. Sensing no tell-tale tremors within the Void, she knew that this was one of his supernatural abilities and therefore immune to any magical dispelling.

The winds had picked up, slowly but surely turning from gentle zephyrs into buffeting bouts of air. Jorinda spoke the words of her next spell— _control winds_ —turning it into a rotation of eight hundred feet radius, with a forty-feet central eye surrounding her. Any physical attacks will not pass through the hurricane-force winds, most energy attacks have a large chance of missing her—and she is protected from them at any event. Due to his elemental nature being a creature of air, cold and darkness, Arden is unable to use spells with the light or fire descriptors to bypass her protective spell. While not quite a secret, the positions of Crone, Mother and Maiden of the Witches were not just a position that grants temporal, political or magical power. Bearers of those offices also served as high priestesses of Selene, Goddess of the Moon and patroness of witches. Jorinda, therefore, have several divinely-blessed spells that can harm or affect creatures of shadows or practitioners of the Void.

She could feel Arden exerting his control over her spell, trying to mould the winds to direct their blast towards her. She pitted her will against him, knowing that it will be her most challenging duel to date—the powers of the Witch Maiden against the might of the Lord of Shadivari. She drew on reserves of strengths she did not realise she had, holding out against Arden’s centuries-old experience and relentless onslaught. She knew that if she lost this battle of wills, the blast of the winds could very well obliterate her. While her natural spell resistance protected her against psychic intrusion, she could feel the shadowfey using his empathic talents to try to insinuate his way through the more primal parts of her consciousness—the more atavistic part of her psyche—trying to find a fingerhold to jolt her away from the battle. Jorinda drew on her training with Christabel at shoring up her mental shields, barely keeping him at bay. Flashes of dark desires—lust, thirst for magical power—danced before her mind as Arden’s mental attacks tried to worm their way like insidious worms in her mind.

She harkened back to memories of the people she knew, and the lives that have touched hers to grant her more strength. The amity she had always kept with Christabel and her suitor Harald bolstered her. The close bond with Arden—before his self-imposed exile, and his return—as powerful representatives of the fey stilled her roiling mind. The gentle friendship and respect she had cultivated with Loki steeled her resolve.

Steve’s face, with his sky-blue eyes and warm smile tethered her thoughts.

As if the memories of the people had unlocked a hidden knowledge within her, her thought cleared. Her purpose crystallised as she realised what it was that she must do all along. She smiled gently, releasing her control over her own spell. She deactivated her magical boots, dropping like a stone.

The world spun as she was buffeted by the force of the winds. She gasped as it knocked her sideways, her breath crushed out of her. Another buffet and she tumbled in mid-air, her cloak ripped away from its fastening and flung away. Her dress ballooned around her legs, and ripped along the seams. At the back of her head, she was amused at how relieved she was at having the foresight to don breeches under them. _The thoughts one had before they die,_ she thought drily. She saw the face of the cliffs advancing towards her and closed her eyes, waiting for the impact…that did not come.

She opened her eyes, slightly amused that she had not been smashed into the face of the cliffs by the winds. A faint movement to her side drew her attention.

A humanoid-shaped shadow floated before her, wispy tendrils of inky blackness lifting and dissipating from its form.

_I remember you_ , the form whispered. _Daughter of Heloise_.

“Heloise la Roche was one of ancestors,” she answered.

_You are her exact likeness,_ the form replied, the tone fond and warm. _Though vastly far more formidable than she._

“I am Jorinda, daughter of Rowena, daughter of Elyse who is a descendant of Araminta, daughter of Claudine, daughter of Heloise,” she recited the traditional formal greeting, naming the immediate three generations, and the three generations this particular shadowfey vestige knew. “Daughters in the service of Selene, of Jarez and of Shakti.”

_We are Arden Ciarr,_ the form intoned. _Of Clan Illirien_. _You contested us. Why?_

The usage of the collective noun set Jorinda aback. It seemed as if Arden had regained some of his faculties, or at the very least the ancestral memory now governing him was more favourable disposed towards her.

“We seek to restore the forbiddance,” she answered bluntly. “Your current descendant was lost in his ancestral memories…”

_And you require his presence sane and whole_ , this time the whisper was mischievous, and tone playful as if a different speaker was now present. She realised that the ancestral memories were now all present and holding court, with her as a supplicant.

“Preferably so.”

She could feel dark amusement emanating from the shadowy form at her pert answer.

_You are bold, Wytchdottir_ , the whisper came again. This time the quality of the whisper was more sibilant and feminine. Another ancestral presence.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Jorinda retorted sweetly, barely managing to keep herself from rolling her eyes. Christabel would have lanced them with a telepathic bolt by now.

_Now you are mocking us,_ the feminine whisper came, with a mild undertone of vexation.

“No. Simple truth,” she countered. “You have no guarantee the Dark Ones will leave Shadivari alone.”

_Not if we stay out of their way,_ a different, drier, more weathered whisper came. Jorinda sensed that this would be a far more ancient ancestor.

“Were you not present during the Battle of Atlantis?” Jorinda asked.

_I had been long past my prime even before Iblis was cast down from Heaven._

Jorinda held herself very still, surprised at the declaration that this ancestor was present when the first angel was cast out.

“The werebeats stronghold of Harakan was razed to the ground. My ancestors fled their homes in Artak after it was consumed by magical blight.”

There was a small pause that Jorinda took to be the various ancestral minds consulting with one another. _Aaah,_ the weathered whisper came again. _A mighty battle indeed_.

“Then you saw that the Dark did not discriminate between Light and other beings,” Jorinda explained. “They will not stop until all existence is theirs.”

_And how will the forbiddance solve this?_ The dry voice asked again. _Penned within this world, where constant vigilance is needed to keep the Dark at bay?_

_Better them than us,_ came the sibilant feminine whisper.

_Yes,_ the mischievous one purred. _They will overreach and extend themselves needlessly._

Jorinda shot back. “You are born of nature, will you see them destroy the Balance?”

_How do you mean?_ asked the sibilant voice.

“They have found a way to bypass the forbiddance, mating with humans and letting their progeny lose on the material plane.”

_Unruly offsprings that will bite more than they can chew._

“You obviously have not countered the _whampiri,_ then,” Jorinda retorted, her temper fraying slightly with her frustration. “They blighted Artak, drained it of its native magic. They turned my people into cattle, feeding off of their life-forces and magic.”

The silence this time was longer. The form before her roiled slightly. She could sense agitation, and disbelief.

_Monstrous!_ the ancient voice exclaimed.

_How could this be?_ came the question, asked by both the mischief-maker and the sibilant female.

A different voice joined the ethereal whisper. This time the voice spoke crisply, like a general at war. _They discovered a way to extend their lifespan beyond what nature had allotted. Nothing came without a price however; the longer they lived, the greater the need to feed on the life-forces of other creatures_. There was a pause, then a wry remarked directed at her. _I stand by you in this, Wytchdottir. Consider this a blood-oath repaid._

Jorinda frowned at the last sentence.

_One of your ancestors, Nimuë Inwidu,_ _aided me in one of my battles against an elven warlock and vanquished him. I am repaying the favour._

A faint memory of a ballad she once heard when she was little— _Nimuë and the Shadow—_ tugged at her mind. She gave herself a mental shake; plenty of time later to look that ballad up.

_I would rather bow down to Iblis than the Dark_ , came the mischievous whisper.

_I will go with whichever guarantees our survival_ , was what the sibilant feminine whisper said.

There were faint murmurs of contention. Jorinda sensed that the other ancestral memories were split between aiding the recreation of the forbiddance, and general survival—even if it meant allying themselves with the Dark. Little by little, the murmurs stilled as each of them acquiesced to the unspoken majority.

Jorinda held her breath, waiting for their decision.

The roiling under the shadowy skin stilled, and the form seemed to take on a more solid appearance. The wisps of inky blackness wafted into nothingness. The black skin of the form paled slowly into gray, then into milky fair skin. Skin that slowly took on an olive tone she was familiar with.

Arden’s dark eyes met hers.

“Jory?” her old friend called to her, his voice hesitant.

“Who else?” she said with a smile, using her magical boots to flit close to him. She drew him into a fond embrace. “You had us worried,” she chided gently.

“I …,” he faltered, his dark eyes cast down. “I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?”

“No, you didn’t,” the witch said with a small smile.

“Thank the stars for small favours, at least.”

“We should go,” Jorinda urged him gently. “The coven is waiting for us at Altar.”

“They’ve figured out how to re-enact the ritual?”

“We kept thinking our ancestors were speaking in riddles, until I realised that it was just the way the language was structured. After that, it was easy to figure it out.”

“I thought it was quite obvious,” Arden stated with a small frown. “Five descendants of the original bloodline that casted the ritual.”

“That is where we face a problem,” the witch said softly.

“Meaning?”

“Adam is dead.”

 

 

* * *

 

Victor looked around him. The island of Altar was the second largest of the Arboreal Islands. It was also the farthest one, situated as it was at the tail-end of the diamond shape the chain of floating islands formed. In contrast to the other islands, Altar was primarily a place of worship. The population of this island was made up of the devotees and clerics of the gods worshipped by the spellweavers.

To the untrained eye, the temples seemed to be located haphazardly on their various locations. He did not miss the fact that Altar was an island in a perfect circular shape, and the various temples were placed at five equally distant points, with a sixth sitting in the middle at the top of a small hill. Victor was confident that if he were to do so, it would confirm the hill was in the exact middle of the island.

To the north, the obsidian walls of the temple seem to absorb the light of the sun. The clergy tending to the temples were worshippers of Rahu, the God of Air, Darkness and Winter. The temple is the smallest, little more than an oversized shrine. Rahites were not given to pomp and show. Its congregation rarely meet in temples, Christabel had said, preferring to meet under the open sky at night.

Opposite it, the bright and airy temple of Gulien stood. Almost the opposite of Rahu’s temple, it was built out of a combination of pale cream and rose coloured marble. The God of the Sun was a popular deity, being both benevolent and kind. A small shrine always accompanied his temples, dedicated to his sister Amara, the Goddess of Fire.

Next to the cream-and-rose edifice was a palatial temple surrounded by a garden of such exquisite beauty that all of them had actually stopped in their tracks when they first caught sight of it. This temple was dedicated to Jarez, Gulien’s divine consort. The temple to the Goddess of Love and patroness of all things beautiful—be it speech, deed or form—functions as a place of rest and refuge. It was a place where all hurts and pain are looked after and succour given, for Jarez was also the Mistress of Healing.

Next to Jarez’s temple was a temple shaped like a large villa. Here, Jarez’s twin Lyvien holds sway. The God of Joy, Liberty and Pleasure was a chaotic, freewheeling deity, given to passing fancies and all manner of delights to the senses. As the patron of commerce he also watches to business done both above and under the table. Joybringers—as the clergy were called—were always welcome for they delight in entertainment, matching Jarezans’ epic ballads and tales of courtly love with ribald jokes and juicy gossip.

Opposite Lyvien’s temple was the austere and spare tower that served as the temple to Shakti, the Goddess of Magic and guardian of the Weave. Shakti was a stern and exacting goddess. Her clergy, known as dweomermasters, preaches an orderly and rigorous mastery of the Art, often pitting them against the more lenient and less dogmatic teachings of the Craft.

In the middle of the island, the standing pillars that made up the enormous gazebo-like structure that is Selene’s temple rose from the top of the hill. Like her divine consort Rahu, Selene’s temple was open to the air with no roof over it.

Victor could make out the members of Hanalee’s coven in the temple, preparing for ritual to cast the forbiddance. As he watched, he caught Clint’s scent in the air. The archer arrived several seconds later, moving on soundless feet. Clint’s arms went around his face, he could feel the shorter man nuzzling against his back.

“What are you doing here?” Clint asked. His voice was slightly muffled against the broad expanse of Victor’s back.

“Thinking,” Victor answered, clasping Clint’s forearms.

“About what?”

“Nothing in particular.”

Clint drew his arms away, circling around Victor to meet him face to face. He nudged Victor’s chin with his nose. “I miss him, too,” he whispered, knowing Victor’s enhanced hearing could capture the words.

“I know,” Victor murmured against his ear. He wrapped the other man in his arms. The archer gave a small sigh as he burrowed deeper into his lover’s embrace.

“I feel so useless here,” Clint groused.

“Arden will come back.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“Christabel won’t give up,” Victor answered. “Neither would Jory.”

“How do you know for sure?” Clint asked again.

“Besides the fact that they spent years trying to locate Arden and return him from his botched self-imposed exile?”

Clint took a deep breath. He knew Victor was right. Christabel and Jorinda will not give up on their friend. At the same time he felt a bit out of his depth, being here in the Feywilds. He wondered for a moment if this was how Steve felt sometimes, having woken up from the ice several decades in the future.

“Save the arrows for when we fight.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Clint said with a small laugh.

Victor tilted Clint’s chin up. “I try,” he said, his voice husky.

He brought his lips down to meet the other man’s own. The kiss was interrupted by a yelp of surprise.

“Whoa!” Pietro exclaimed, skidding to a full stop several feet away. “Keep it clean, you two.”

“We barely even started!” Clint protested.

“Speak for yourself,” Victor growled, nipping at Clint’s earlobe.

Pietro rolled his eyes. “Well, you can stop moping now,” the silver-haired man said with a small smirk. “Jory found Arden.”

“Is he …?” Clint asked, his voice faltering.

“Recovered my faculties?” Arden’s voice came from behind them. “I should hope so!”

Victor’s steps ate the distance between them before he swept the fey up in a bear hug. Clint hung back, letting the two have their moment. Victor was nuzzling into Arden’s neck, murmuring into his ear. He put the fey down and Arden held out his hand to Clint, asking him mutely to join them. The hug lasted several minutes, the three of them acknowledging the love and affection among them.

Pietro’s clearing of his throat brought the hug to a reluctant end.

“My apologies, Pietro,” Arden said with a faint blush. He looked at Clint and Victor. “We still have much to do.”

“Hanalee has her coven preparing for the ritual,” Victor stated.

“It will not be enough,” Arden said, shaking his head. “The bloodlines have been compromised. Only Jory and I are pureblood descendants of the original casters of the ritual.”

“How did you know this?” Victor asked.

“One of my ancestors was one of the participants during the ritual,” Arden explained. “I have his memories now, intact, inside me. I also know what we need to overcome the fact that we lack several components.”

“What are they?” Clint asked, his blue eyes focused.

“We need at least the help of two gods to rework the ritual,” Arden answered. “Selene will always heed the call of her priestesses, but the other might not answer a mortal’s call.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Pietro commented an aside.

Arden nodded at him. “I would agree because it is this particular god that sealed the ritual back then.”

“Who is it?’ Pietro asked, his eyes afire with curiousity.

“Lyvien.”

“Why wouldn’t he answer the call?”

“Lyvien is … capricious, to put it mildly,” Arden answered with a grimace. “He is the embodiment of liberty, and freedom when taken to extremes is anarchy.”

“Fuck me,” Clint swore.

“Later,” Arden said absently, earning a smirk from Victor.

“Do you have a plan?” Clint said, after elbowing Victor affectionately for the smirk.

“Jory and I thought of one,” Arden said, turning to smile at the two. “She’s headed to the coven to tell them.”

“What is it?”

“We need bait.”

“And what is the bait?” Pietro asked. “And please don’t say virgin sacrifice because you’re shit out of luck there, I think.”

“Not what, who,” Arden corrected.

“Oh?” Pietro prompted. “And please remember you were talking about trapping the God of Liberty. Pretty tall order there.”

“What better bait for the God of Liberty, than the God of Mischief?” the fey pointed out with a smile.

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forbiddance restored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 95% done guys.  
> Unbeta-ed, all mistakes are mine.  
> Feel free to drop any comments, kudos, and whatnots.

 

Loki stared at Jory. The witch had the grace to blush, although she did not squirm under his gimlet-like gaze as expected. She had faced her fair share of battles; a murderous stare from an alien god is the least that she had faced when all things were considered. Steven was standing to his side, leaning against one of the many columns of the temple.

“I know that this is a lot to ask,” she began.

“You know nothing, witch,” Loki snapped. His voice rose as he continued, “You will have me placed as bait to entrap another god! Why the hypocrisy of it all is beyond the pale!”

“Loki,” Steve made a move to placate him. He placed one hand on the raven-haired god’s shoulder. Loki shrugged the hand off.

“Do not touch me, Steven,” Loki said darkly as he whirled to face the soldier, “unless you have no more use of your limbs.”

“You know I will not ask this of you if there is another way,” Jory said softly, her eyes brimming.

The sight of those large green eyes holding back tears was his undoing. He realised that the witch was telling the truth.

These feys’ own gods are forbidden to intercede directly, an edict placed a long time ago by an overriding presence these Ilmari call Ahad. Selene was permitted to enter the fray—in limited capacity—as the witches are her priestesses and call upon her to bless the forbiddance. Lyvien was needed to place the wards of the forbiddance around this faerie realm, taking away the freedom brought about by its gradual erosion.

He deflated slightly, sagging against the import of Jory’s request.

“I will do it,” he agreed finally. He straightened himself, a bit of his former hauteur returning. “But I need to be alone for a while.”

“Of course,” the witch nodded. She clasped his hands gently, squeezing them.

Loki walked away from them, feeling Steven’s eyes following him. _Damn the man, does he not know when to leave me in peace?_

He was not paying much attention as he wandered down the small hill, only taking note of his surroundings to avoid the occasional cluster of people he encountered. His sharp eyes spied four people near the outer cliff of the island; three of them in a group embrace. Going by the height and physique, he would venture them to be Arden, Victor and Clint. The other man was recognizable as Pietro, marked by his silvery hair.

The sweet scent of flowers brought his attention to his surroundings. His steps had brought him to the massive garden surrounding the temple of Jarez. Curiously, he looked around, noting the peaceful silence and calmness that lay around him like a warm, comforting blanket. The sweet smell of roses lingered in the air, the scent surprisingly easing his troubled mind. Loki was reminded of the moonlight-dappled gardens of Arden’s Argent Palace where the air was touched by the lingering scent of moonflowers. _Mother’s garden was much the same_ , he recalled. The sound of trickling and splashing water drew him to a small fountain.

A woman was sitting on one of the four benches arrayed around the fountain. Although she was facing the water feature, her gaze was blank, her attention seemingly focused on some distant thought by the abstracted expression on her face.

Loki stilled himself, enraptured. The woman’s beauty reminded him of Christabel’s classic beauty. That is where the similarity ended, however. Whereas the mentalist’s beauty was one of icy perfection, this woman’s was like soothing cool waters of a pristine lake. Loki could see glimpses of Jory’s sweetness and gentle wisdom in her violet eyes. She seemed to be of undetermined age—while her teak-like complexion was smooth and blemish-free, her mien hinted at a depth of maturity that belied her youthful countenance.

There was another thing that he realised; despite her unassuming air this woman exuded a gentle aura of command and power that reminded him of his mother Frigga.

He knew then that this woman is the mistress of this place. The goddess Jarez.

He made to back away quietly but she must have caught his movement from the corner of her eye for she turned towards him. Loki bowed in respect.

“Forgive my intrusion, lady,” he apologised. “I did not mean to disturb you.”

“You are not,” she said with a small laugh. The goddess’s voice was sweet and girlish, like innocence and wisdom combined. “Come, Friggasson, and rest yourself a while.”

“You know me,” Loki stated as he approached her.

She turned to her rapt contemplation of the fountain. “I am also the Goddess of Love,” she declared gently. “The love that you carry for your adoptive mother shines like a beacon across the universe.”

Loki sat next to her. “You know of us, of the people of Asgard?”

“All in Creation knows of the mighty halls of Asgard,” she answered. “I knew Odin when he was but a stripling of a youth.”

“You have met him?”

“It was to have cemented our alliance,” she responded cryptically. “An alliance between the Lords of the Fey and the Hosts of Asgard.”

“A royal match,” Loki realised.

“There were several candidates,” Jarez shrugged delicately. “Bor desired Selene for his son but my eldest sister rejected the proposal. If I am not mistaken, her then-suitor Rahu threatened to encase Asgard with an eternal winter harsher than even those in Jotunheim.”

Loki laughed. “I suppose that did not sit well with Bor.”

“It did put a damper on that particular suit,” Jarez agreed, before continuing. “I still remember Bor rejecting Shakti for being too powerful for his liking.” The goddess’s lips twisted in mirth. “Amara was rejected for being too outspoken—she called him a miserable old goat and told him where to shove his proposal!”

Loki laughed again. “Surely you jest!”

“I assure you, I am not,” she replied, placing a gentle hand on his. “It is good to laugh, is it not?” Jarez commented, with an approving nod. “’Tis the best medicine.”

Loki glanced sideways at her, a small smile acknowledging her seemingly artless comment.

“How was it that you and the Asgardians come into contact?”

“It was before the time of the forbiddance, before even the Morningstar fell from Heaven,” she explained. “We were already at the height of our power, granted permission to rule the material realm as we saw fit. Our people venerated us as the most powerful of their kind, and did us worship. As the worship grows, so did our powers until we became on par with the Heavenly Host and the Children of the Eternal Flame.”

“And now?”

“As humanity grew, our people receded from view and with it our cities and civilizations. Ahad laid the decree that we were never to interfere with his mortal creation, save to protect our own if needed. Like all things in Nature, our time has passed.”

“Some of the feys ignored that,” Loki surmised.

“Like the Morningstar before them, they tempted mortals into ruin. They taught mortals to venerate our Dark cousins and spread the curse of the _whampiri_ into the world.”

“So you sacrifice yourselves to save the rest of the world,” Loki concluded.

“Our time has passed,” Jarez stated again, finishing her narrative.

Loki looked around him, taking in again the beauty of the garden. He returned his gaze to the goddess. “And you cannot leave this temple.”

“Cannot is a relative term,” Jarez corrected him. “Wherever there is love and beauty my presence lingers. When comfort and succour is needed, I am there.”

Loki stilled himself, absorbing what the goddess had said. Jarez laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Not all is lost, Loki,” she said. “Love, in its purest form can surmount even the hardest of obstacles or steel your resolve.”

Loki raised an eyebrow, tossing her disdainful glance.

“Did your children not come from your love?” she pressed gently.

Loki stiffened, his hackles rising. “I think you mistake lust for love, milady.”

“And lust is what made you petition Odin to grant your daughter a domain of her own, independent from Asgard? A place where she will not be found to be a target of mockery for her appearance? Do you even beheld her once and found her wanting?”

“No,” Loki said softly, his eyes shut against the image of his daughter. “Never.”

“Your sons you place as agents of Balance, even unknowingly.”

“All things must pass,” Loki realised, tears falling. His chest felt numb as the importance of the statement dawned on him.

“The Witch Maiden knows what she must do,” Jarez whispered. “She may never see any of you again once the forbiddance is restored, the Weave tightened against intrusion if Shakti has any say in it.”

Loki thought of Steven, not knowing how the soldier would react should he learned of this. He hid his face in his hands, feeling like a lost child. “You are dooming Steven to a solitary life.”

“Are you so sure?”

Loki lifted his face. “How do you mean?”

Jarez kissed his forehead. The touch of her lips calmed him and eased the numbness in his chest.

“All in good time, Frigasson,” she said, rising to her feet. She held out a hand to him. “Now, I believe you have a task to perform?”

 

 

* * *

 

Loki is standing in the centre of the pentacle. The five points of the star diagram correlate with each of the temples situated at its place on the island.

At the pentacle’s northern point stood Natasha, followed by Wanda, Clint, Victor, Steve. Within the circle of five Christabel, Jory and Arden formed a triangle. Loki is in the middle.

His skin tingles at the magical energies coursing through the air. The magic-sensitive feys sometimes glance around them; from the elves to the dwarrows.

Harald had arrived several hours ago with a contingent of his dwarves and an accompaniment of five high wizards from the silvarren. They were joined by a troupe of werebeasts and dryads who came mounted on giant eagles an hour behind Harald’s kinsmen. They formed a larger circle outside, with the elves taking place at each of the pentacle and the others arrayed between them. The witches comprising Hanalee’s coven were arrayed in a circle around the island, all six hundred of them.

The witches started their incantation, words of power calling to an erstwhile deity. Loki could feel his blood singing as it reacted to the power it evoked. As it reached its crescendo, the sky split with a resounding clap of thunder, lightning flashing from in the horizon.

“Well,” said a playful voice. “This is interesting.”

The speaker had the appearance of a man in his late twenties. His pale skin was like alabaster, his tight dancer’s physique shown to its advantage by the short linen kilt he wore. His cupid’s bow mouth implied child-like impishness but his ice-blue eyes belied a mind aeons old.

“Loki of Asgard, at your service,” Loki introduced himself. “I bid you welcome.”

“Far from home, aren’t you?” the other commented. “And why are you helping these witches?” he asked, glancing around them. He frowned when he saw the Avengers. “Not all witches, I see.”

“We seek to rebuild the forbiddance,” Jory started but faltered when Lyvien held up his hand, stilling her and stealing her voice.

“Hold your piece, Wytchdottir,” he cut in. He nodded towards Loki. “This one seeks my audience and it would be churlish not to grant it to him.” He released Jory from his hold and returned to the other god. “Have your say, Asgardian.”  

Loki quelled the concern rising in his mind at the god’s cavalier treatment of the witch. “I have never seen that done before,” he remarked calmly.

The other god threw his head back and laugh. “I am the embodiment of freedom,” he declared. “I can grant it, and I can take it away.”

“Formidable,” Loki murmured. “To business then?”

“Please,” Lyvien drawled, making a _get to it_ motion.

“You speak of freedom, which I find interesting.”

“How so?”

“That you would stand aside and allow your Dark cousins and their followers free reign throughout the world.”

“What the Dark will do does not trouble me,” Lyvien said. “Not if I do not pose a threat to them.”

“Like you yourself said, you are the embodiment of freedom. I would say that is not so negligible a threat.”

Lyvien stilled, his eyes troubled. “All things must pass.”

Loki smiled. “Of course,” he agreed. “Pity you will not be able to retain your divine spark.”

Lyvien whirled towards him, his teeth bared. “Explain,” he spat out.

Loki made a show of glancing at his sleeves, brushing an imaginary droplet of spittle away. “I thought it was quite obvious,” he drawled. At the other god’s narrowed eyes, Loki shrugged. “I do not pretend to know what your Dark cousins have planned, but subjugation or annihilation of the Light brethren wouldn’t be too far of the mark.” Loki paused. “You draw power from your worshippers, do you not?” he asked nonchalantly.

Lyvien’s silent seething was answer enough.

Loki continued, as if not taking note of the other god’s discomfort. “If I remember correctly, a sizable portion of the Dark are _whampiri_. I would expect they’ll keep some of their enemies alive for feeding purposes. Not much freedom and trade, or pleasure I expect will come from there.”

“You make a compelling argument,” Lyvien allowed. “Then again, you are the Silvertongue, are you not?”

Loki inclined his head in agreement at the rhetorical question.

“What would you say if I could promise you your children’s freedom?” Lyvien asked with a vicious smile.

Loki gasped.

Lyvien’s smile widened. “Sounds interesting, no?”

“It does, indeed,” Loki agreed. “And what will this entail?”

“Provide me safe passage through the Ebon Pathways,” Lyvien said, “and your children’s freedom is assured.”

“And your Dark cousins will leave me alone, I suppose?” Loki pointed out sarcastically.

“Probably not,” Lyvien tossed airily, “but by then you would have your World Serpent of a son at your side. That should convince them to play elsewhere.”

Loki glanced at Jory. The witch looked at him helplessly, knowing that Loki loved his children despite appearances to the contrary.

“It does sound workable,” Loki hedged, stalling for time. “But I have no guarantee that you will hold up your end of the bargain.”

“You doubt my words?”

“Not your ability to grant freedom. I believe you have it in your power,” Loki replied. “I merely doubt your commitment.”

“Priceless words,” Lyvien sneered, “coming from you.”

“I am the God of Mischief,” Loki shrugged. “You cannot fault me for staying true to my nature.”

“I suppose I could get by without my divine spark,” Lyvien mused.

_Be very careful here,_ Christabel’s warning came to his mind. _Lyvien is not without his tricks._

“You _have_ considerable power, being one of the paragons of your kind,” Loki allowed.

“Before I agree to anything,” Lyvien warned, “I would like to hear the terms first, if you don’t mind.”

“As the embodiment of freedom, you are only required to bar the ability to pierce the forbiddance using the Weave.”

Lyvien stared at Loki, his face cynical. “That is all?”

“That is all we require,” Loki confirmed.

“Every single pathway will be closed if I agree to this. All travel using the Silver Roads to enter or exit the Feywilds will be barred,” Lyvien clarified. “Except for the Ebon Pathways.”

“Which is the purview of Rahu,” Loki stated.

Lyvien looked around the circle. “That is why you have mortals here,” he said with a dawning of realisation. A nod of guarded respect came. “You seek to tether the forbiddance on both planes of existence.”

“The children of Hawa,” Loki stated, reciting one of the lines from the ancient text he remembered from Christabel’s library.

“And you are the one from beyond the stars,” Lyvien realised with a smile. “Amazing. We never realised what the Great Crone said when she was in the rapture of her visions, thinking that she spoke in riddles.” He shook his head ruefully. “I should have known.” The god smiled, tossing a sad glance at Jory. “You know what to do, Wytchdottir.”

Jory nodded. She had known for some time now, ever since she heard the words of the great Crone recited. A quickened _transposition_ spell switched Loki’s position with hers.

“ _Now!_ ” she cried, her voice amplified to ring across the width and breadth of the island.

The god Lyvien grabbed one of her hands. His nails had grown into claws and he drew bloody lines down her arm. She swallowed her cry of pain, thrusting her other hand towards the sky. Her blood sparked blue and white with eldritch fire, coursing down her arm. Tongues of magical power that coursed up and down her body as the magic took effect.

_Let all that I am, let all that I will be, be given to the world,_ she thought as the magic rose within her.

_Let all that we are, let all that we will be, be given to the world,_ came the mental voices of her coven sisters as they joined their strengths to hers. Tendrils of eldritch energy sparked across the sky, arcing in lines of silver from one witch to another in the large circle throughout the island. The witches threw their hearts into the ritual, confident in their purpose.

_Let all that we are, let all that we will be, be given to the world,_ the rough minds of the werebeasts and dryads joined in. Green arcs of energy joined them as their bodies surrendered themselves to the magic.

_Let all that we are, let all that we will be, be given to the world,_ came the musical voices of the elves. Azure bonds of eldritch energy lanced through each of the five high wizards, their spirits being given over to the force that was slowly forming as a whirling vortex of energy over their heads.

_Let all that we are, let all that we will be, be given to the world,_ came Christabel’s mental voice. The mentalist’s mental voice now sounded almost choral-like, as if she was speaking with multiple voices. Jory realised then that the blonde was in fact speaking with all the mental voices of other mentalists. She was reminded again that just as the maiden, Mother and Crone of the witches are the nexus of the spellweavers’ magic, the Mentalist Prime is similarly linked to her people. A gentle pearly glow surrounding the mentalist as she brought the mental collective of the mentalists into the Weave.

_Let all that we are, let all that we will be, be given to the world,_ came Arden’s voice. His form had been leached of colour with inky black tendrils rising from his form. The tendrils danced in the air as it rose towards the sky, taking on spectral shapes as they rose. The souls of elementars long past giving themselves over to the magic.

The tendrils of energy rose, combining with one another as it refined itself according to the incantation uttered by the witches. Words of power rode along the slowly rising winds, hands and fingers moving in concert as they trace runes of power in the air. The witches felt the power build, slowly and surely as it the ritual of the forbiddance continued.

Within the large circle of witches, surrounded by her coven, Hanalee shed a tear. All things in Nature exists in balance. Such magical working of this magnitude will surely exact a price. Her concentration wavered for a fraction of a second, but the Mother of the Witches rallied herself. If the forbiddance is ruined, all in creation is surely lost. As to whom will pay it, she could not know though she had her suspicions. Hanalee could feel herself weakening as the ritual sapped her strength to fuel the magic. A quick look to her fellow sisters told her that they felt the draining effects as well.

The circle of dryads and werebeasts seemed to be faltering. Despite their hardier constitution, the two were not weaned on magic, and would be susceptible to the ritual’s debilitating effects. Before her eyes, one of the werebeasts fell on one knee. His companion quickly shored up his stance and brought him back to his feet. Swaying slightly, he steeled himself and gave himself over to the magic.

All around, the tendrils of energy lifting from the participants slowly formed into a raging maelstrom. The vortex of magical energy crackled with power. It began drawing what was given without discrimination, hungry in its undivided intent and purpose. Jory saw several of the werebeasts fall, the green arcs of energy slowly dissipating as it lost its grounding. She could feel the lines of energy slowly dwindling among the witches as the weakest among them too stumbled and fell.

_It is now or never,_ the witch thought.

She looked at Loki, and her resolve almost left her when she met the horrified look on his face as he realised what she was about to do.

“No!” he cried out. “Do not do this!”

Loki threw out his hand hoping to stop her, his fingers sparking with green energy. His attempt was quickly countered by Jory. He bucked and writhed within the bands of ensorcellment she had crafted in retaliation, supplanting Loki’s attempt at intercession and directing it towards the god to keep him in place.

“There is no other way,” she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. She glanced at Steve, meeting his sky-blue eyes.

If Loki had almost melted her resolved, Steve almost made her abandon the ritual. Thoughts of what might have been, of untold lives of them together stretched before her mind—all of them never to come to fruition.

The soldier met her eyes, his expression both heartbroken and accepting. _I love you,_ he mouthed silently.

The witch closed her eyes. She went deep inside herself, deep within her heart of hearts towards the hidden part of herself that she had never shown anyone. The source of her magical resistance. A mental tug and that locked part of hers within was sundered. She would not need spell resistance for this.

She turned to meet the God of Liberty, ignoring the dizziness taking hold as her blood trickled unendingly from the cuts along her arms. The tears of pain almost blinded her, but she blinked them away. She brought up her bleeding hand and traced a rune on the god’s forehead.

“A trade,” she whispered, her voice soft as the dizziness encroached further. “Your safe passage for mine.”

The god’s eyes widened as he realised what she meant. “You do me too great an honour, Wytchdottir. I cannot accept this gift.”

“Then I have a boon to ask.”

“Ask then,” the god commanded.

She beckoned the god close and whispered in his ear. He drew back after she had finished whispering, his eyes dancing. “Done!” he said. “You may want to say goodbye to your friends now.”

“No,” she said with a small smile. “No goodbyes.”

“Very well,” the ancient eyes bored into hers. “Are you ready?”

Jory read the unasked question in those immortal eyes. Despite his caprice, Lyvien was giving her one final chance to recant. She met his eyes, resolute and sure.

“I am ready, my lord,” she said calmly “Set me free.”

The ancient eyes, previously mischievous, now wore a dejected look. The god’s hands cupped her face gently. “Ah, sweet child,” the god sighed. “If only you were one of mine own.” “I would personally escort you to the gates of Irkalla,”he said, naming the place where all feys go in the afterlife.

The god laid his hand gently on her chest, and slowly unravelled the very fabric of her form.

The witch felt no pain. Only a slow languor that took her as her being unravelled through the god’s doing.

Slowly, like skeins of thread unravelling from a tapestry, her rich mahogany curls trailed in the wind. She could feel her mind slowly merging with the vortex of magical energy above them.

Her skin followed next, unspooling in threads of cream-coloured tendrils. There was no blood nor viscera as she was unravelling, her form being given over to the Weave.

Even as she merged into the magical vortex, she heard the cries of shock and grief that echoed throughout the island. The sheer weight of emotion—borne by hundreds of witches bewailing the loss of their beloved Maiden—carried across the island, their keen of loss and shock reverberating throughout. The anguish of a shadow elementar joined them, Arden’s mind and the collective souls of his ancestors combined. A soldier and an alien god were struck silent, but their minds cried out their loss in concert. It almost tore Lyvien from his task but the god ignored it. As he finished his unspooling of the fabric of the spellweaver’s being, he could feel another being add their grief at the fey’s passing.

Selene had joined her witches in mourning her Maiden’s sacrifice.

Overhead, the whirling vortex slowly relaxed as it formed into a glowing network of energy that ran across the horizon. As the Witch Maiden’s essence merged with the vortex, it slowly expanded. The curtain of glowing silvery threads then raced across the sky, covering it as far as they could see.

Merging with the fabric of the realm, they Feywilds were enveloped by the silvery threads. From the distant shores of Zamar where fire elementars danced among the volcanic isles of the Scarlet Sea, to the borders of moonlit Shadivari the silvery web raced through the earth, air, waters and beyond.

Inside his being, the God of Liberty could feel phantom holes and pathways slamming shut as the energy permeated the entire realm; the forbiddance restored, the pathways leading to and from barred.

The resounding thunder overhead faded as the ritual ended, and no trace of the Witch Maiden remained.

Nothing that is, save for a necklace of pearl and diamonds with a single lodestone pendant.


End file.
